The smoke slowly dissipated between them, and Sigismund finally slowly rose.
His power armor glowed with a cold, hard matte finish under the artillery fire. The black sword, exclusively belonging to the Emperor's Champion, was tightly clenched in his hand, the blade flowing with holy light that had slain countless Chaos Lords and Daemon Princes.
No one knew better than the warriors of the Imperium that this armor, this sword, this name—all of it he had fought for, battle by battle. During the Siege of Terra, he had devised a plan for Horus to breach the Eternity Wall in three days and delayed it for fifty-eight days.
In the countless dark nights of the Great Crusade, he had fought to the death against the erosion of the warp, turning countless desperate life-or-death situations into merits for the Imperium.
His status and deeds were inscribed in the bones of millions of Chaos heretics: with a single knife and a single shot, he had reached the utmost pinnacle achievable by an Astartes monk.
The moment he clenched the black sword, the air across the entire battlefield seemed cut by the blade, and a fierce murderous intent appeared on his face.
Fujimaru Ritsuka even subconsciously held her breath. She had seen many heroic spirits, but had never felt such a pure, dense, murderous aura, filled with countless lives and deaths, in a single person.
Yes, any Servant who had experienced thousands of years of ups and downs seemed like an amateur in comparison.
"Lord Kiliman, your subordinate... I am sorry."
The moment Sigismund's voice fell, he vanished from the spot.
There was no unnecessary foreshadowing, no half-hearted start-up. The roar of the power armor's servos overloading had not yet spread, and the black sword had already transformed into black lightning, piercing the terrifying cursed scar on Kiliman's heart.
This was a killing blow—he had slain three Daemon Princes of the Dark Gods. His swordsmanship was so perfect that it had no flaws. The power, speed, and angle were polished to the Astartes' limit, capable of piercing the frontal armor of a main battle tank, even cleaving starship-grade steel plates in half.
Red A, watching, instantly clenched his other hand. He knew very well that if it were him, he couldn't dodge this strike. He could only use a projected Noble Phantasm to block it, and there was a high probability the blade would still pierce through.
But Kiliman simply turned slightly to the side.
There was no terrifying speed, no unnecessary movement. His feet didn't move even half a step. His body opened sideways at an angle, precise to the millimeter. The black sword, which had condensed Sigismund's history of killing, grazed his ribs and soared into the air. The wind caused by the blade only ruffled the broken hair on his forehead.
Sigismund's pupils suddenly contracted. Without a pause, his wrist twisted, and the black sword instantly transformed into a horizontal slash, the blade with the force to cut adamantium, crossing Kiliman's waist and abdomen.
What followed were slashes, thrusts, and feints. He fully displayed his swordsmanship, honed over centuries of conquest to its extreme. Every move was aimed directly at fatal points, without a single wasted motion. Offense and defense were flawlessly integrated. The black sword-light enveloped every inch of Kiliman's body like a downpour. Even the shells and fragments exploding around him were twisted into gunpowder by the blade wind.
He had done everything he could.
He had used every technique available to an Astartes without reservation.
He knew that the other party was a genetic primarch, the Emperor's inheritor, an existence he would always look up to. But he still had to fight—everything he had fought for alone, including his honor, his name, and his loyalty.
But within the airtight sword-light, Kiliman always moved to the side.
He was shirtless, without the protection of power armor, without the blessing of weapons. He relied only on the simplest footwork. Every time he turned and sidestepped, he precisely avoided all attacks.
Sigismund's sword was extremely fast, but he could always predict the sword's path half a step in advance. His techniques were perfect, but he could always find the invisible, inevitable gap in the human body.
His eyes were always calm. He looked at the Emperor's Champion fighting with all his might before him as if watching a child practicing swordsmanship intently. He didn't even breathe heavily.
In the span of three breaths, Sigismund had swung seven hundred and twenty-one strikes.
721 sword strikes, each a lethal technique.
Only then did Sigismund finally understand.
Not only were the merits and valor of these Astartes elevated by Valhalla, but the Emperor's inheritor before him, this great genetic primarch, had also been elevated to a deserving level that mortals could never reach. The power and grace bestowed upon the Thirteenth Son by the Emperor Himself were not accessible to these monks from beginning to end.
"I said, enough."
Three words. Kiliman made only one move within the airtight black rain of swords. He accurately struck the spine of the consecrated black sword.
He let Sigismund let out a sound like a caged beast beneath his helmet, compressing all the power in his body to its limit, letting the power armor's servos overload with smoke, the conduits bursting with dazzling sparks. Even if he poured out his entire foundation, honed from centuries of corpses and seas of blood, and desperately infused it into the blade, the black sword that had cleaved Daemon Princes and Chaos warships remained still in Kiliman's hands, like a rooted mountain, unable to advance another inch.
All his efforts at this moment turned into complete meaninglessness.
Only at this moment did the spectators truly understand the suffocating weight of the words "genetic primarch." They also began to fathom why humanity could conquer the galaxy in the future.
This was not a void that could be filled with relentless hard work, life-or-death struggles, and a lifetime of diligence.
This was a creation of the Emperor Himself, beyond mortals, the most perfect form achievable by human genes.
Even if you burned everything you had and touched the ceiling of mortality, you would still feel only an insurmountable helplessness, penetrating deep into your bone marrow.
Sigismund released his strength, but still refused to let go of the weapon he had carried all his life. He could only lower his head deeply, an indomitable tremor and unwillingness in his voice, word by word:
"Lord Kiliman, I admit defeat."
The moment the words fell, Kiliman released his hand and let go of the black sword.
He looked at the kneeling Emperor's Champion, his voice calm and deep, with the open approval of a primarch:
"You have achieved the highest attainable by an Astartes brother—your loyalty, your martial arts, worthy of the title Emperor's Champion."
"Raise your head, stand up, Sigismund."
Kiliman's voice pierced through the embers of the battlefield. There was no commanding pressure, only the highest recognition of a warrior who had given his all.
Sigismund tremblingly raised his head. He looked at the genetic primarch standing against the light and saw that the other's body seemed to have faded a layer of soft radiance from the Throne of Heroes. In a trance, the four-meter-tall majestic figure overlapped with the faith engraved in his bone marrow. He clearly saw two overlapping figures. One was the genetic primarch he had followed all his life—Rogal Dorn.
The other, who looked so much like the Emperor of Mankind, very much so.
The sword and shadow of centuries of conquest, the blood, fire, and smoke of the Siege of Terra, and the endless battles of the Black Crusade all surfaced in his heart at this moment.
"On behalf of the entire Imperium of Man, I thank you for your lifelong loyalty and perseverance."
Kiliman's voice sounded in his ears, solemn as if giving an eternal oath.
"May your soul finally return to the throne of the Lord of Humanity and enjoy eternal peace."
The moment the words fell, Sigismund's figure glowed with a faint psychic shimmer, and his outline gradually became transparent.
He slowly closed his eyes, faced Kiliman, and with his last strength performed the standard Astartes military salute. His voice was light as the wind blowing through the smoke, but filled with complete solemnity and relief: "Thank you, Lord Kiliman."
In the next second, a flash of light exploded, and Sigismund's figure completely vanished from the battlefield.
In his place stood an ordinary Space Marine in broken Mark III power armor.
His body bore horrific wounds that would have been instantly fatal, but strangely, wisps of pure, warm, golden holy flame burned over these wounds.
Instead of burning flesh and blood, the sacred fire gradually healed the mortal wounds that were on the verge of destruction.
Kiliman's pupils contracted sharply.
The last time he had seen such a scene was during the darkest moment of the Siege of Terra.
At that time, the palace walls were being breached by the traitors one by one, and countless Astartes brothers were dying on the ramparts defending the Emperor. It was the creator and his father, seated on the Golden Throne, who ignited sacred flames with immense psychic energy, allowing the fallen warriors to be reborn and fight for Him.
And the sacred flame before him was no different from the psychic fire that had belonged to the Lord of Humanity back then.
"The Emperor decrees: You may go to Him. But only three are permitted—the Lord of Chaldea, the Partner of Justice, and the Thirteenth Son of the Emperor."
The solemn words of the messenger fell, and the three people whose names were called all trembled violently.
Fujimaru Ritsuka was stunned. She subconsciously pointed at her nose, her mind in chaos, screaming inwardly: How could it be me?! I'm just a workhorse Master here to fix a singularity! Isn't this primarch, full of aura, supposed to go in and handle everything? How can I go to this legendary Emperor of Mankind?!
Shirou Emiya stood still, his fingertips suddenly tightening. The words "Partner of Justice" exploded in his chaotic thoughts like lightning.
And the most shocked was Robert Kiliman.
When the words "Thirteenth Son of the Emperor" reached his ears, his breath instantly hitched, then became extremely heavy.
Ten thousand years of sleep, thousands of years of conquest, thousands of years of accusations and insults—he had heard countless people call him Regent, Primarch, but he had never thought that one day he would hear this identity, belonging to him as a son, in a decree from his father.
His entire body glowed with sparks of psychic energy, and with the power of the heroic spirit, he vanished with the murderous aura, donning a simple dark blue uniform. He wanted to be seen as a son, not as the Imperial Regent.
He slowly turned and looked at the two behind him, a hint of anticipation in his voice that he didn't even notice, and said softly but firmly:
"Come with me. It's time to meet Him."
---
Before the teleportation began, Kiliman suppressed his voice and explained all the rules and etiquette for the audience to both of them.
His tone was serious, impossible to ignore. Even if it meant being separated from the young man's body, he would never allow even half a mistake.
The moment the light of psychic energy and magic enveloped the three of them, after the world spun, they were already standing in the underground cavity of the Fuyuki Greater Holy Grail.
The suffocating black mud of the past had long since disappeared. The water level of the underground lake had dropped by nearly half. The damp, cold stone walls and exposed stone platforms glowed softly in the holy light of the magic circle.
The ritual circle of the Greater Holy Grail slowly flowed in the center of the stone platform. On the stone throne at the end of the circle, Locke, enveloped in holy light, calmly looked at Kiliman.
When he spoke, the youthfulness and the emperor's gravity were perfectly intertwined, his dual voice echoing layer by layer in the empty void:
"Oh? It's the Lord of the Second Empire who has come."
The moment the words fell, Fujimaru Ritsuka and Shirou Emiya froze simultaneously.
They both almost instinctively turned their heads, their gazes simultaneously meeting Kiliman's body. Their faces were full of shock and astonishment, and the questions in their hearts nearly burst out:
"Second Empire? What is that?"