Bang!!!
forgebreaker, heavy as a meteor falling from the sky, crashed down with a wave of heat, striking hard against Abaddon's pitch-black Terminator power armor.
Fulgrim felt a slight tingling sensation in his fingers, his expression somewhat strange.
He had swung his hammer twenty-two times before finally breaking through Abaddon's power armor, exposing his body.
As for Abaddon's face, it was astonishingly thick; no matter how many times forgebreaker struck, it simply couldn't shatter Abaddon's skull.
It was as if, in the depths of the Warp, some power beyond reality and fate was protecting him.
Is it the blessing of the Four Gods?
Fulgrim looked at the grotesque runes etched like tiny wounds between Abaddon's flesh and blood on his charred body, appearing extremely twisted.
Although Abaddon outwardly appeared almost unmutated, beneath his skin, between his flesh and blood, his body had already mutated into an extremely inhuman state due to the erosion of Chaos energy.
It was these blessings of the Four Gods, flowing within his mutated body, that protected Abaddon and allowed him to withstand Fulgrim's twenty-two heavy hammer blows.
This resistance was not purely on a material level, but a higher-level, fated resistance.
The Gods twisted fate, forcibly ensuring Abaddon would not be killed.
Any attempt to kill Abaddon would be inexplicably resisted, weakened, or nullified.
This was an extremely powerful blessing, one of the reasons Abaddon could roam the galaxy.
But Fulgrim felt only contempt for it.
To survive, Abaddon actually allowed the Four Gods to desecrate his body in such a way.
And yet he dared to claim he had not succumbed to the Four Gods, claiming to be an independent entity, claiming to have used the Gods.
He was clearly a plaything in the hands of the Gods, a monster with a human exterior but an inner self twisted beyond recognition, a pathetic failure and an idiot.
If the price of power was to become so ugly, twisted, and enslaved, Fulgrim would rather die.
Fulgrim looked at the ugly Abaddon, and beyond contempt, he felt an uncontrollable sigh.
He could vaguely see Abaddon in his memories, and his brother Horus.
Horus, clad in armor as white as the moon, stood shoulder to shoulder with his Four Kings Council on the high platform of the Vengeful Spirit, so noble, so exalted, almost perfect.
But now, where was his noble brother?
Where had those noble warriors gone?
"Abaddon, you have fallen to such a state."
"If Horus, before his fall, had seen this, how sad he would have been."
"You are an impostor! You are not worthy to speak his name!" Abaddon struggled, trying to stand up.
But Fulgrim kicked him in the chest, pinning him to the ground.
"He is a flawed being, a fallen product, a failed person."
"My father forged us to be perfect beings."
"Whoever can become truly perfect is the true Primarch of the Emperor's Children."
Fulgrim was completely unmoved by Abaddon's words; he slowly raised the warhammer in his hand.
He was curious if there was a way to bypass the Gods' blessings on Abaddon.
Such as not directly killing Abaddon, but slowly accumulating damage on his body?
For example, bleeding Abaddon, slowly letting him die.
For example, slowly crushing Abaddon's limbs, assaulting his will with intense pain.
For example, pulling out Abaddon's spine inch by inch, completely paralyzing him.
For example, stripping Abaddon's skin, exposing his flesh directly to the air.
Fulgrim was very curious, extremely curious.
If he did all these things, would Abaddon still survive? If so, in what form?
He had plenty of opportunities to test his curiosity.
After all, with the Gods' blessings, Abaddon would not die easily.
Let's start by slowly crushing Abaddon's limbs!
For some reason, although this was Fulgrim's first time doing such a thing, he found it surprisingly easy.
He swung the heavy hammer, striking Abaddon's fingers, and a shattering sound erupted.
Fulgrim knew Abaddon was thick-skinned, so after the warhammer landed, he didn't lift it immediately but pressed it firmly to the ground, grinding it like a millstone.
A sharp, grating sound of bone and metal friction rang out, piercing and terrifying.
Fulgrim meticulously ground Abaddon's fingers, finely pulverizing them, as if engaged in a delicate artistic creation.
"Ah ah ah ah ah!!!"
Abaddon gritted his teeth but eventually couldn't help but let out a mournful wail.
"Fingers." A smile instinctively appeared at the corner of Fulgrim's mouth.
"..What are you going to do?" Abaddon looked at the smile on Fulgrim's lips, a sudden fear rising within him.
"Forearm." Fulgrim merely smiled and said.
Abaddon's heart sank, but forgebreaker had already fallen again, followed by another round of brutal crushing, grinding, and piercing, grating sounds.
"Elbow."
"Upper arm."
"Shoulder."
As Fulgrim's clear and elegant voice rang out, Abaddon's left arm turned into a pulpy mess.
"It's... over..." Abaddon watched Fulgrim lift the hammer, breathing heavily, his voice tinged with a sense of relief.
"Over?"
Fulgrim showed a puzzled expression, tilted his head slightly, and placed a finger on his chin, saying:
"Have we even started?"
"That was just practice; the real work is just beginning."
"Besides, don't you still have an arm, two legs, a whole skin, a set of bones...?"
"..Ah!!!!!!"
Sharp screams echoed through this former human breeding ground of the Crimson Angels.
Fulgrim was very grateful to the Crimson Angels; they had once tormented mortals here, leaving behind many useful tools even after being consumed by fire.
"Abaddon, I'm going to insert this iron thing now."
"Don't insert it!!!!!!"
Within the silent bridge of the Vengeful Spirit, a low hum resonated.
Like sparking electricity, like grinding gears, like a silicon hymn.
Reality and the Warp coupled bit by bit, and amidst the howling arcs, Vashtorr stepped onto the bridge.
His steel hooves struck the metal deck, emitting a crisp thud.
Vashtorr slowly unfurled the sharp metal wings on his back, gently waving his arms a few times.
This was a brand new Reality Engine, a new model of body, forged by Vashtorr after the Soul Forge, through several iterative improvements.
He called it "Reality Engine 135.555," the five hundred fifty-fifth minor version of the one hundred thirty-fifth generation of Reality Engines.
This model fixed some bugs from the previous generation, improved Warp link latency, enhanced vacuum gliding capability and reaction speed, externally loaded six Greater Daemons sealed within the wings on his back with whom he had a pact, weakened the linking capability with surrounding machines, and relatively focused more on creating machines out of thin air, while strengthening the link with the Tuqiaocha Engine and the plagueheart.
To facilitate cooperation with his partners, Vashtorr also sent a five hundred fifty-five-page update log to Abaddon and Perturabo.
Abaddon, as before, not only didn't read it but didn't even receive the file.
To strengthen their communication, Vashtorr had even designed a Warp office communication program called Vashtorr Chat, but Abaddon hardly ever used it.
Even though Vashtorr had iterated Vashtorr Chat through fifty-four major versions!
From this perspective, Perturabo was much better; he would almost always reply with "Received" after seeing Vashtorr's messages.
But this time, even Perturabo didn't respond.
Vashtorr felt something strange; after entering reality, he hastily looked around, searching for Perturabo's figure.
Fortunately, he quickly spotted Perturabo.
Perturabo was standing by a window on the Vengeful Spirit, gazing at the endless void outside with a vacant, lonely look, seemingly lost in thought, pondering something unknown.
"Perturabo, Iron Lord."
Vashtorr first sent Perturabo four or five Vashtorr Chat messages, but Perturabo didn't reply, having clearly turned off Vashtorr Chat. He could only speak to interrupt Perturabo's thoughts:
"Tell me, where is Warmaster Abaddon the Despoiler?"
Perturabo slowly turned his head, looking at Vashtorr with an displeased gaze: "Am I his babysitter? How would I know where he is?"
"Also, don't call him Warmaster Abaddon the Despoiler in front of me; he is only the Warmaster of the Black Legion."
"I'd rather support Lion El'Jonson than him as Warmaster Abaddon the Despoiler."
Perturabo's lips curved slightly upwards, looking at Vashtorr with a hint of displeasure:
"When did Abaddon ever deserve the title of Warmaster Abaddon the Despoiler?"
"What glorious achievements did he have during the Great Heresy?"
"The nine Legions of the rebellious faction were my burden, Abaddon was captured by me, logistics were maintained by me, and the Siege of Terra was also commanded by me."
"Although I don't want this title, even I didn't take on the title of Warmaster Abaddon the Despoiler, so how could Abaddon deserve it?"
Who had annoyed him now?
Vashtorr thought indifferently; since Perturabo was unhappy, he had no intention of provoking him further. Instead, he walked over to a teleporter in the corner of the bridge.
This was also Vashtorr's creation; this teleporter was connected to a teleporter beacon on Abaddon's power armor.
If Vashtorr wished, he could use this teleporter to harness the power of the Tuqiaocha Engine, tearing through time to teleport Abaddon back.
Vashtorr's mind stirred, and the teleportation machinery activated. The power of the Tuqiaocha Engine was mobilized, and instantly, a spatiotemporal rift appeared before Vashtorr.
Then, a sticky, rotten-flesh-like mass fell out of the rift, along with scattered pieces of power armor and equally scattered organs.
Vashtorr looked at this lump of Abaddon on the ground, somewhat bewildered.