The Red Angel looked up at the enormous blue metal buttock in mid-air, and the entire demon froze in place.
This was the boundary between the Warp and reality, a space called the repository of consciousness.
In this dimension, will was everything; will was power; will was mass, volume, density.
Such a massive buttock, such an immense size, meant that the existence pressing down possessed unparalleled will.
Just by looking up, the Red Angel could feel that powerful will, a will that was silently strengthening the will of everyone present, drawing them all into his tide of thought.
It was a will that was cold, strict, cruel, precise, and tinged with a sense of numbness, like a complete system of absolute order that allowed no mistakes, rigidly forcing everything within his sight to follow the path he had planned.
This will was somewhat like the Emperor's; whenever daemons gazed at the cold, deep, black sun in the Warp, they would feel the Emperor's terrifying will.
But the Emperor's will was mixed with countless contingency plans, options, and checks and balances.
The descending will, however, had none of that; it only had one path for this galaxy and for himself.
Moreover, that path was not conjured from imagination, but was forged through countless trials over untold years, having become something stubbornly terrifying.
If that metallic blue figure were to lose control, die, or completely become a Warp entity, his will would likely directly trigger a terrifying Warp storm, crushing the barrier between reality and the Warp and giving birth to a terrifying Warp entity.
The veil between reality and the Warp let out a mournful wail, and the blue metallic figure slowly moved.
His face descended from the heights of the Warp, emerging from the chaotic torrents of the Empyrean.
It was a round, Civet cat-like face, with a crimson nose more dazzling than a brilliant star, and oval eyes cast down, staring at the Red Angel.
Rafen and Apothecary Meros had a spiritual connection due to their gene-seed, and Apothecary Meros' body was occupied by the Red Angel, so their wills were also linked.
Alexander directly used the Dream Cloud Ladder, entering the Red Angel's will through Rafen's dream.
The Red Angel's will was almost no match for Alexander; ultimately, he was only a demon born ten thousand years ago, a tool shaped by the Blood God to control the rage of Sanguinius' sons.
His will was simply not worth mentioning compared to Alexander's will, accumulated over twenty-two thousand dreams and tens of millions of years of countless attempts.
Not to mention, Alexander also had the devout faith of countless humans in the galaxy, and faith was also a form of will gathering around Alexander.
And in the Warp, will was largely everything; this will could even transcend the limitations of time, space, and causality.
Alexander, when he was still a scavenger in Ashford, possessed a considerably vast Warp essence, partly due to this.
The Red Angel faced Alexander's will head-on; he couldn't even muster the thought of resistance and was instantly crushed into a state of stupor.
Alexander slowly extended a helping hand towards the Red Angel, who then barely reacted from his stupor.
He let out a horrified wail, a sharp, piercing roar, instinctively wanting to flee.
But where could he flee to?
This was where his will resided; he could retreat into his material body, but that path was blocked by Meros' lingering will; before he could break through Meros' blockade, Alexander's round hand would grab him and instantly refine him.
He could flee into Rafen's will, occupying Rafen's body, but Alexander was entrenched in Rafen's dream, which was tantamount to seeking death.
He could also try to seize Sanguinius' body, but that, too, was seeking death.
The Red Angel had nowhere to run, shrinking into a corner of his own will, as Alexander extended his round hand towards him.
Almost at the moment of contact, the Red Angel's body, existence, and will, shaped by Khorne, disintegrated under the impact of Alexander's will; everything about him was stripped away layer by layer, exposing the most primitive, most chaotic Warp surge of rage.
That was the crimson fury of Sanguinius' sons, different from the Black Rage; it was a rage born of thirst, born of ghouls, born of mutant identity, and finally reflected in the Warp.
A crimson storm swirled in Alexander's round hand; a Blood Angel would likely be completely consumed by the rage within it, and even a Primarch like Sanguinius would be affected by it.
But this storm hardly provoked any emotion in Alexander's heart.
He had experienced too many similar things; apart from a very few events, there were few things and events in the galaxy that could truly evoke strong emotions in him anymore.
So, he lightly tossed the crimson storm towards Sanguinius, then climbed the Dream Cloud Ladder back to reality.
Sanguinius bore the ten-thousand-year rage induced by the Bloodthirst with his own body; a fleeting flicker of anger crossed his face, but his gaze ultimately became somewhat complex as he looked in the direction Alexander had departed.
Finally, Sanguinius shook his head and gently flew towards his son, Apothecary Meros.
"My son."
Sanguinius' voice was clear, gently falling before Meros' almost collapsing soul:
"You have borne too much in my stead."
Saying this, Sanguinius gently extended his hand towards Meros, and a golden-red interwoven glow enveloped Meros.
On the back of this Apothecary, who had persevered for ten thousand years, a pair of pristine white wings slowly grew, almost identical to Sanguinius'.
The Red Angel's body suddenly exploded in mid-air, blood, bone, and flesh turning to ash and scattering everywhere.
The scorching fire also extinguished, turning into faint specks of light that dissipated into the air.
Fulgrim felt his mouth full of the taste of ash, sulfur, and blood, wanting to spit to clear those tastes away.
But he found his throat dry, without a trace of moisture.
His skin was also parched and shriveled, and some ugly burn marks appeared on his exposed face; his silver hair was also scorched black.
Fulgrim staggered forward a step or two, then his gait regained its elegance.
He took a breath or two, saliva began to secrete in his throat again, his scorched hair fell off inch by inch, and silver hair, like a snowfield under the moon, grew back in the blink of an eye; the burn marks also healed completely in moments, and his lean, slender, handsome face returned, a playful smile reappearing on his thin lips, and his shriveled skin once again became pale pink, like a maiden's or a newborn infant's.
Compared to Fulgrim's ease, Abaddon's condition was much worse.
The Red Angel was closer to him and hadn't notified Abaddon beforehand when performing the ritual, so almost all the materialized rage burned on Abaddon.
Abaddon's body, shriveled by the high temperature, was frozen in place; his deep black Terminator power armor became even blacker from the smoke and fire.
Because Fulgrim had previously destroyed Abaddon's Iron Halo during their fight, the fierce fire directly targeted his unprotected face.
But even ten thousand years of accumulated rage from the Blood Angels couldn't burn through Abaddon's skin; it only burned off a layer of flesh, scorching Abaddon's facial muscles and making his face as black as his power armor.
Abaddon slowly opened his mouth, suddenly spitting out a black mist; his dry mouth intermittently gasped for air, as if trying to snatch moisture from the air.
The Black Warmaster stiffly took a step forward; his topknot was already extremely brittle from the burning, and as he took a step forward, the hair on his head turned to ash and dispersed.
But Abaddon's steps did not stop there; he took another step, then a second, a third, a fourth—his steps gradually became steady, powerful, changing from walking to running, from running to charging.
He raised drach'nyen in his hand with an almost frenzied posture; the daemon sword seemed completely unaffected by the fierce fire, still glowing with an eerie blue light.
Fulgrim's expression suddenly tightened.
Abaddon still had fighting power; this was indeed somewhat unexpected for Fulgrim.
Indeed, one should not underestimate the heroes of the galaxy today; Abaddon's ability to dominate the galaxy for ten thousand years had his reasons.
With this thought, Fulgrim stood ready, raising the forgebreaker warhammer in his hand, and stepped forward to meet Abaddon.
"..Loken?" Abaddon suddenly murmured softly; it was then that Fulgrim realized Abaddon's expression was dull and confused, his eyes unfocused, not falling on Fulgrim at all.
He seemed disoriented, and his eyes seemed to reflect a ruin, on which stood him, little Horus, Torgaddon, and Loken—their decisive battle on Istvaan III.
"Loken..." Abaddon's voice rose slightly, and he suddenly took a step forward, then stepped on a protruding piece of rubble.
The rubble, unable to bear Abaddon's weight, suddenly shattered and disintegrated; Abaddon's body lost balance and he fell to the ground with a thud.
Abaddon opened his mouth in a daze, letting out a few weak, low moans.
The creator Vashtorr's creation's effect had expired, and Abaddon's body returned to its weak, powerless state.
Fulgrim slowly raised the forgebreaker in his hand.
"..You would take advantage of someone's misfortune?" Abaddon gritted his teeth, speaking weakly: "Is this your nobility, your perfection?"
Listening to Abaddon's words, a slightly disdainful curve appeared on Fulgrim's lips:
"You are merely an imperfect traitor, a fallen fool; do you even qualify to define what perfection is?"
"Only I, the one who will ultimately be perfect, am fit to define perfection."
"What I deem perfect, that is perfect."
Saying this, Fulgrim, almost without hesitation, raised the forgebreaker in his hand and swung it heavily at Abaddon's face.
"Ah ah ah ah ah ah!!!" Abaddon's agonizing scream rang out.
Fulgrim clicked his tongue slightly, feeling the slight numbness in the web of his hand.
"Such tough skin! Take another hammer blow from me!"