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Fulgrim's gaze was venomous.
He stared fixedly at the Savior, a cold smile tugging at his lips.
"Hypocritical fraud. A charlatan the false Emperor shoved onto the stage.
You tried to offer up that disgusting flesh of yours to earn the favor of the Prince of Pleasure.
Unfortunately for you, I saw through your tricks long ago—along with the utter futility of your resistance."
This fallen being no longer showed the slightest fear of the Savior. On the contrary, he reveled in his own provocation.
Arrogant. Far too arrogant.
The Fallen Phoenix spoke with such unrestrained contempt that he clearly did not place the Savior or the other Primarchs in his eyes at all.
He likewise treated the elite Custodians around them as if they did not exist.
As if victory were already his.
He even went as far as to insult the Primarch of Hope, the Savior, now Emperor of the Imperium itself—spreading slander that this great figure sold his body for the favor of the Prince of Pleasure?!
The Savior was the Emperor's chosen heir, ranked only below Him in all the Imperium of Man.
Such slander was not far off from blasphemy against the Emperor Himself.
The degree of sacrilege was on par with when heretics had once spread rumors outside the Imperial Palace on Holy Terra that the Emperor was "peddling His own body."
What blasphemy.
"Fulgrim!"
Guilliman ground his teeth so hard they could have sparked, a storm of thunder raging in his eyes.
Under the shock of his fury, even his nature within the Warp began to slip from his control.
This "psyker-muggle" let a trickle of psychic power leak out, and he wanted nothing more than to reduce the Fallen Phoenix's fleshy puppet to smoking dust.
To Guilliman, an insult to the Savior was more enraging than an insult to himself.
He would not allow anyone to dishonor his brother.
Nor was he alone. The Khan, Lion, and the others were all seething, their blades flaring to life.
"Traitor. You will be utterly destroyed."
The Custodians wrestled with their anger and leveled their power weapons at the Fallen Phoenix, as if they might annihilate this blasphemous puppet in the very next heartbeat.
They were both guardians and incarnations of righteous wrath, born to bring destruction.
With just a few short lines, the Fallen Phoenix had managed to ignite the Imperium's fury.
Mostly because Fulgrim's over-made, affected appearance was so punchable that anyone who looked at him got an urge to slap him across the face.
After his ascension, instead of amplifying the seductive allure of Slaaneshi corruption, he had turned himself into something neither male nor female, neither quite human nor quite daemon.
His personality had become warped to the extreme—venomous, spiteful, consumed by jealousy.
"Fulgrim…"
Eden, even after being slandered by the Fallen Phoenix, did not show much anger. His bearing remained dignified.
He even straightened his back.
He did not rush to rebut the slander or explain his lack of ties to Chaos. That would have been the inferior move.
The innocent were innocent whether they argued or not.
Besides, everything the daemon had said was completely wrong.
"Trading flesh for favor"? Please.
He was the one existence the Prince of Pleasure could not have—the rising "King of Charms" of the Warp and the galaxy.
The friend of noble ladies, whether human, xenos, or heretic.
And he had quietly chiselled away a sizable chunk of Slaanesh's power and worship for himself.
By now, across the galaxy and the Warp, he had skimmed off the faith and corrupted power meant for Khorne, Slaanesh, and even the Changer of Ways—
And he had swindled no small number of goodies from the Lord of Plagues.
His shadow identity, Diablo the Destroyer, had also grown through several evolutions and become terrifying in his own right.
To call him a mere Chaos cultist was laughable. He was nearly one of Chaos itself.
Of course, here in the material galaxy, he was the Savior, the Emperor of the Imperium. It would not do to go too far.
That was what you called "darkness beneath the lamp."
Just as the Emperor appeared all light and glory, yet gave rise to the deepest shadows.
The brightest radiance cast the darkest shade.
Two sides of the same coin.
"Hypocrite. Speechless already? Your so-called 'perfection' is nothing but a clumsy performance, swaggering behind that skeleton and pretending to be strong."
Fulgrim kept ranting, drawing even more furious shouts from Guilliman and the others.
He seemed to be waiting for them to destroy this puppet body—that would mean the Imperium had no rebuttal and could only answer with violence.
"Sigh… Old Gil and the Custodians really haven't mastered Father's true trash-talk technique."
Eden sighed inwardly. In the end, he would have to handle this himself.
Verbal barrages before and during battle were a classic spectacle in this universe.
He might as well indulge it.
He ignored Fulgrim's words entirely and simply walked toward him, step by unhurried step, utterly at ease.
"You're rattled."
His eyes held a trace of pity, the way one might look at a wretched little worm.
With that line alone, he crushed the Fallen Phoenix's momentum and broke his rhythm.
The True-One Armor's effects flared to maximum, blazing like a sun.
Seizing the moment, he added, calm and leisurely:
"You're just a clumsy little clown, desperately hiding your envy of me, the Emperor of the Imperium.
You're not just jealous—you're copying me, aren't you?"
Eden had already noticed the decorations on Fulgrim's body, his entrance posture, the sound effects, and so on.
They were very much his own style.
Even this last-minute battlefield taunt was from the same playbook—mimicking Eden's habit of putting on a massive display before combat to depress the enemy's morale.
If Eden had not been present, Fulgrim really might have gotten away with a flashy speech and then retreated on a high note.
The Savior's words made Fulgrim's face twist at once, powdered features warping.
That verbal jab had clearly struck for true damage.
The splash damage was real as well—the Lion's gaze flickered faintly, a twinge of guilt in his eyes.
His sense of "being caught" was strong.
After all, he had once directly knocked off the Savior's golden armor style, only to embarrass himself right in front of Eden.
If he had not been sure that the Savior held no malice, he might have thought his brother was calling him out.
In reality, it was pure friendly fire.
Thankfully, no one else seemed to notice.
Ultimately, Primarchs and high-tier warriors were too proud and too obsessed with honor.
They, unlike the Savior, did not have the thick skin to blatantly copy the Emperor's aesthetic and then turn it into their own signature.
Simple taunts could never break his defenses. As he liked to say, these people's trash-talk skills were not even on the level of the online forum trolls from his previous life.
They simply had not grown up bathing in the flames of the network. Take the current psyker-net forums—some of those greasy gearheads cursed in ways that were genuinely filthy.
Especially the Emperor—his high-intensity surfing had definitely left a mark on Imperial culture.
With one light volley of trash-talk, the Savior put the Fallen Phoenix in a state of stunned silence.
Fulgrim's voice hitched, then he drew a sharp breath.
His tone grew even more shrill. "Savior, your sharp tongue changes nothing!
All this nonsense about 'envy' is just your own delusion.
Look at this perfect body of mine, the flawless fusion of the powers of pleasure. It far surpasses your fake flesh.
You're nothing but a sad little worm who carves up cloned bodies to fool the masses, too afraid to show your true self.
Because your original flesh was so weak, so small, unworthy to stand beside a Primarch's body, let alone be compared with my perfection!"
The Fallen Phoenix displayed his serpentine form, every muscle like a sculpted statue, his armor a piece of consummate artistry.
To be fair, since copying the Savior's domain's style, he really had fashioned an impressive visual.
"You see? Rattled again."
Unfortunately for him, Eden simply refused to take the bait. He stood there smiling at Fulgrim like the daemon was a frantic clown desperate to win an argument.
This was the correct approach.
The ultimate secret of a trash-talk duel: you say your piece, I say mine. If you start taking the other side's points seriously—getting angry, arguing on their terms—you've fallen into their rhythm.
Guilliman, the Khan, Lion, and the others watched the Savior's relaxed demeanor, then glanced at Fulgrim hopping up and down.
They began to understand. Quietly, they watched and learned, all of them smiling as they fixed their eyes on the Fallen brother.
The pity in the Savior's and the other Primarchs' gazes cut deeply into the hyper-proud, hyper-narcissistic Fallen Phoenix.
Events were diverging wildly from the scene he had envisioned, and he was rapidly losing his composure.
"Eden!"
Fulgrim's voice climbed so high it sounded like someone was dragging fingernails across glass—or like a kettle boiling over.
It was a squeal that seemed to scrape on the nerves.
He glared at the Savior.
"These childish arguments change nothing. The corruption of this world has reached a new threshold. Human armies can no longer survive within it.
You are doomed to lose this war. And you will be facing—"
"I don't know exactly what we'll be facing. I do know what you're about to face. Something truly terrifying."
Eden smiled in a way that was hard to read and tapped a few commands into the vambrace of his armor.
"For example… a daemon prince bawling like a pathetic little butt-sprite."
As he spoke, a projector on his armor activated, casting a massive holo-screen into the air.
"What… what are you doing?!"
At the sight of the Savior's movements, Fulgrim recalled a past he would rather have forgotten; there was a tremor in his voice.
But before he could react, a familiar scream rang out from the gigantic image in the sky.
It was his own voice.
"You can't do this…"
The Fallen Phoenix was almost suffocating, unable to believe what he was seeing.
Slowly, he lifted his head. In the projection, he saw himself howling in anguish, every cry wretched beyond words.
It was the shameful footage of the prodigal son, the Fallen Phoenix, being strung up and thrashed by the Emperor Himself, the Seven Wolves belt leaving trails in the air.
It was, without question, one of the most sensational scenes in the entire galaxy.
"By the Emperor!"
Such a vision drew every eye. The moment the Emperor's towering golden phantom appeared, all attention flooded toward it.
Custodians and Astartes alike sank to one knee with reverent care, observing this holy yet deliciously scandalous footage in absolute focus.
This was the same traitor who had just insulted the Savior and the Emperor in turn.
Now, watching him get royally punished by the Emperor Himself was deeply satisfying.
But their solemn, almost liturgical posture of observation only compounded the Fallen Phoenix's sense of shame.
It was a public execution in all but name—ultimate humiliation.
The loyal Primarchs, meanwhile, looked like spectators at a drama, eyes sparkling with schadenfreude as they occasionally glanced at the frozen Fallen Phoenix, their looks dripping with contempt.
Their long-pent fury toward the traitor Primarch found a release.
The footage had even been edited and enhanced with effects, each frame highlighting the traitor's suffering and regret as he was disciplined.
Key moments had close-ups of Fulgrim's face, emphasizing his clownish state.
"Brother, send me a copy later."
Lion drew a deep breath and felt truly relieved.
He had to admit, Eden really knew how to break someone down. It felt good.
No one hated the Chaos traitors more than the loyal Primarchs—especially those who had once fought at their side.
The betrayal cut deepest where brotherhood had once been.
So the loyal Primarchs had nowhere to vent the anger they bore toward their fallen brothers, and the Emperor's punishment of the traitors gave them the catharsis they craved.
Guilliman and his sons, in particular, had endured years of Fulgrim flaunting his "victory" over the Primarch of Ultramar, using it at every opportunity to mock them.
The resentment had been gnawing at them. Seeing Fulgrim now, so utterly humiliated and clownish, and watching it together with everyone—
How could that not make them feel cleansed?
"Brother, this version is much better than the one you sent me before. Make sure I get a copy later."
Guilliman's laughter rang out, each peal like a dagger stabbing into Fulgrim's heart.
Opportunities to mock a treacherous backstabber, live and in person, were rare.
He intended to savor it.
He was also quietly grateful that Fulgrim had never recorded their earlier fight. Otherwise, he would now be facing a lifetime of ridicule.
Blackmail like that, looped forever, would be unbearable for any high-tier warrior.
The footage grew more intense still, when the Savior stepped onto the scene wearing his dusk-gold Daemon-Eater armor.
He appeared in the vision to take over from the Emperor, launching a fresh round of beatings on the Fallen Phoenix.
The reaction from the watching crowd was immediate.
"For the Savior!"
The Custodians and Imperial warriors erupted in cheers at the Savior's entrance.
Guardian spears hammered into the ground, swords clanged against shields, their morale soaring sky-high.
The image further reinforced the impression of the Savior's invincibility.
Especially the sight of the Fallen Phoenix giving his all yet failing to defeat the Savior—instead collapsing and trembling on the ground and uttering,
"Perhaps… there is still room for negotiation between us?"
This line brought roars of approval from the Imperial warriors, as if they had already secured victory.
"When I get my hands on Fulgrim, I'll record my own version and run it on a loop across the Five Hundred Worlds."
Even Guilliman could not help himself. Fulgrim's earlier mockery had been a heavy burden on him.
He had to wash that stain away with this war, once and for all.
This would be his first great reckoning with Fulgrim in ten thousand years, and he was confident that this time, he would utterly defeat him.
The mass public execution they had staged in front of Fulgrim dealt a grievous blow to the Fallen Phoenix's spirit.
His face went from red to black to a sickly green. His serpentine body shook uncontrollably, his heart clenched as if seized by a fist, leaving him dazed for a long moment.
He could not even bring himself to raise his head.
"No…"
He finally came back to himself, lips trembling.
He had believed himself prepared to face all of this—that even if the Savior released the holo-footage, he would be able to endure.
The Fallen Phoenix no longer wanted to be blackmailed by the Savior. He had thought he could overcome his shame and accept that humiliating past.
He had not expected the Savior to release the footage this way—to subject him to a public execution before all the Primarchs, all the Custodians, all the warriors of the Imperium.
It was the ultimate humiliation.
Worse still, the Savior had now recorded new footage, capturing his current trembling, clownish state under the holo.
This was beyond what he could endure.
And then the Savior's next words struck like a killing blow.
Eden, clearly pleased, turned the projector fully toward Fulgrim:
"How about it? Doesn't this daemon prince butt-sprite look ridiculous?
I've recorded some new material to splice into the previous footage for a reaction video.
We'll call it: 'Shocking! The Fallen Phoenix Reacts to His Own Butt-Sprite Moment!'
Once it's done, we'll run it on a loop throughout the Warp and the galaxy."
In that instant, Fulgrim's heart turned to ash—especially when he imagined this fresh reel of despair spreading across the galaxy and through the Warp.
He could already see himself becoming the galaxy's biggest joke, mocked even in Slaanesh's own palace by sniggering daemons watching in secret.
He realized that the image of the Fallen Phoenix was finished. It would be nearly impossible for him to step into the light again under that name.
Perhaps he would have to adopt a new identity, a new name.
This was what the Savior called "ultimate social death."
The Fallen Phoenix sank into a profound silence—yet after a while, he slowly lifted his head, his features contorted.
"You may be celebrating too early. I have not yet lost.
So long as I win this war—beat all of you—make you taste the same agony I have endured—
Then all my shame will be washed away."
Pink mists rose and swirled as Fulgrim's puppet body began to disintegrate.
He left them with one final sentence:
"The war has already begun. The others are on their way.
We will settle ten thousand years of strife here—and this time, you will be the ones who lose."
This was the Fallen Phoenix's last thrash of defiance. Only victory could save him from ultimate social death.
When the last wisp of mist dispersed, the puppet he had worn fell apart into scattered meat.
"Tch. I was only just getting warmed up and the man's already tapped out…"
Eden shook his head. He had been planning to show Fulgrim some exclusive clips of his own… intense encounter with the Prince of Pleasure—
Self-erasing, of course.
Shame, really.
He raised a hand and summoned a golden flame, burning the meat left behind by the Fallen Phoenix to charcoal.
Just in case there were any hidden tricks.
"I never imagined Brother Eden had this side to him—especially that fondness for recording footage…"
Lion felt a bead of cold sweat on his brow as he heard the Savior's words.
His impression of Eden shifted yet again. This man was not just flamboyant and terrifying in battle. He also understood exactly how to humiliate and outplay people.
Too devious.
The Lion was privately grateful he had never come into conflict with the Savior. His gaze grew even friendlier.
But he had to admit—having such a brother fighting beside him was profoundly reassuring.
A grand schemer with ten thousand years of tricks on the enemy's side was a nightmare. On your own side, it was pure comfort.
His confidence in the coming war only grew.
"Brothers, I can already sense a new crisis approaching.
We should discuss how to respond to this fresh situation."
Eden looked to Guilliman and the others, expression calm and all-knowing.
"According to the latest intel, at least three more traitor Primarchs are on their way to this world."
He frowned slightly.
The danger of this war had escalated. With Fulgrim and these three incoming traitors, there would be four Fallen Primarchs in play.
With the four loyal Primarchs on their side, that meant eight Primarchs would be gathering on this planet for a passionate reunion.
Truly a star-studded cast…
(End of Chapter)
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