The Emperor looked at Leman Russ, who radiated fighting spirit, and nodded in clear satisfaction.
"Come at me," he said. "Use your fullest strength."
" Awooo!"
With a howl, Russ stamped on the ice.
The frozen surface shattered, and he rocketed toward the Emperor like a shell fired from a gun.
In the blink of an eye he was upon his father, a massive fist tearing through the air on a collision course with the Emperor's chest.
That blow could have split a mountain, yet the Emperor remained where he stood, a faint smile on his face.
He raised one hand, effortlessly blocking the strike.
This time, he chose not to rely on psychic power; he wanted to trade flesh-and-blood blows with his son.
'Think of it as a spirited little father-and-son game, he mused. Russ lives for the brawl. If I beat him with the Warp, he'll never accept it. So I'll defeat him at what he does best.
'My son, my power is far more than mere psyker's might. In the brutal press of melee, I am still the greatest warrior mankind has ever produced.'
"Interesting! Again!" Russ roared.
Spinning on his heel, he lashed out with a savage roundhouse kick aimed at the Emperor's head.
Speed and power peaked together; the very air shrieked as it was torn apart.
Yet the Emperor once more lifted a casual hand and parried the blow.
His movement was smooth, almost playful, as though taming a wild beast.
Then his own fists blurred into motion, raining down on Leman Russ like a hurricane.
Sparring with young Axis earlier had been a game, a test for a child.
Against a fully grown Primarch, the Emperor held nothing back; he wanted a true measure of a Primarch's adult prowess.
Russ could not track the Emperor's fists at all. He could only endure the pummelling,unable even to strike back.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
The Wolf King was reduced to a living heavy bag, face swelling and bruised under the onslaught.
"Is that really all you've got? Too weak! Haven't eaten enough, or drunk too much, perhaps? Honestly, I felt more force from that little brat a moment ago," the Emperor quipped, amusement in his voice.
Russ was not angered.
If anything, the taunt fanned his excitement.
He sprang back a few paces, fists clenched. Every muscle tightened; his frame swelled, cords of iron packed beneath the skin.
A faint silvery light shimmered across his body.
Primal fire lit his eyes.
The wolf-blood awakened. Canines lengthened into fangs; claws erupted from his fingertips; pupils burned crimson.
He had never used this stance before, an all-out unleashing of the savagery in his veins.
The Emperor nodded slightly.
When he had designed the sixth Primarch, he had woven in select canid traits, above all, the genes of the wolf.
Russ's fangs could bite straight through auramite plate or a weapon of finest steel; even the teeth of his sons could shear alloys and crack ceramite.
"Ha-ha-ha! That's the spirit! Come, show me your power, stranger."
Fully unbound, Russ laughed thunderously and charged once more.
His assault was wilder than a storm; fists and feet crashed down like torrential rain, every blow carrying the force to shatter mountains.
It was the onslaught of a two-legged giant wolf.
Russ's onslaught was savage, his crimson eyes shining with blood-lust.
Each sweeping strike came with the guttural sound of wolf-howls, and the two great wolves that had grown up beside him echoed their master's cry from the edge of the field.
The wolf brothers started forward, meaning to join the fray and stand with Russ against the Emperor, but with a curt sweep of one clawed hand Russ forbade them.
"This is my fight. No one else may interfere."
"Hrah—aooo!"
With a renewed roar Russ blasted toward the Emperor once more, faster than before, leaving only a blur in the frozen air.
Gold-clad fist and silvered claws collided again and again, detonating rings of pressure and thunderclaps across the tundra.
Yet no matter how Russ attacked, the Emperor never moved from his spot.
One arm remained calmly folded behind his back; with the other he blocked every blow as though he were an unshakable mountain.
Russ hurled himself against that mountain with the fury of a winter storm, punches and raking strikes tore at the air, his fangs flashing, eyes afire with primal will, but the Bastion of Mankind did not yield.
Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham!
The Emperor's counter-punches hammered into Russ's chest, shoulders, and guts like iron mauls.
Each impact made the Primarch's massive frame quiver; bone and sinew cried out, tested to the brink. Never had Russ endured such crushing force, and his footing began to falter.
Even with the wolf-blood fully awakened, strength and speed driven to their limits, he could gain no ground.
Biting back a snarl, he staggered back a few paces, knuckles white, muscles knotting for one more charge.
But the Wolf King was already an arrow spent.
He had unleashed every trick, bared all his savagery, and still could not topple his foe. The end drew near.
An hour crawled past.
Now Russ fought on will alone, fists flailing in dull, ghost-light arcs, no form, no fury, only stubborn momentum.
His consciousness blurred at the edges.
The Emperor sighed, swept a single leg across Russ's path, and scythed him to the ground.
Flat on his back, Russ gasped in ragged breaths.
He could no longer rise; even the act of blinking felt impossible. He was defeated, utterly, unequivocally, by the man who claimed to be his father.
The two wolf brothers bounded to his side, whining, then rounded on the Emperor with low, warning growls.
"Do you yield now, my son?" the Emperor asked, looking down at the fallen Primarch.
"Hah… you are indeed the stronger," Russ rasped, a crooked smile splitting his battered face. "It is your victory. As we agreed, I will join you, pledge myself to the Great Crusade and serve you…Father."