In Warhammer, throwing a muddle is impossible.

That sword strike was too fast. So fast that Solomon didn't have time to deploy his shield, so fast that Vlad couldn't come to his rescue.

Caesar only had time to tilt his head slightly.

The sword's edge grazed his neck armor, and although it didn't sever his throat, it precisely knocked off his tactical helmet.

The black helmet arced through the air before crashing heavily to the ground and rolling twice.

In that instant, the battlefield seemed to be paused.

All eyes were on Caesar, who had lost the protection of his helmet.

A head of long, radiant golden hair fluttered in the cold wind of the ruins.

That face was breathtakingly handsome, with features as flawless as an ancient Greek sculpture.

Handsome, proud, and flawless. His eyebrows, his features, even the tight curve of his lips.

He looks exactly like the one opposite him, Fogrim.

The only difference is that this face lacks the traces of the Primarch's excessive indulgence, displaying only fortitude and rage.

That face...

The sword in Forgrim's hand froze in mid-air.

He stared intently at Caesar's face.

It's like looking in a mirror.

No, it's more terrifying than a mirror.

The image of Fugrim in the mirror has become twisted, grotesque, and filled with inhuman characteristics due to his corruption.

But the "Caesar" before us possesses the pure and sacred perfection that he once had.

That was his most prized appearance when he was still the Primarch of the Empire, shining brightly.

That was his most glorious moment when he was still a phoenix.

"This... is impossible..."

Fugrim's voice trembled, a shudder that came from the depths of his soul.

In that very instant.

In that distant Slaanesh palace, filled with decadent music and ecstatic screams.

The Dark Prince saw that face through the eyes of his most beloved Primarch.

That blond, vibrant, and proud soul.

That perfect, flawless face.

"Ahhhhhhh!!!"

A piercing scream exploded in the subspace.

That wasn't anger; it was an extreme longing, a possessiveness driven to the extreme by greed.

"I want him!"

"He is perfect! He must be mine! I want to put him in my collection room! I want him to be my new mate! I want him!"

Fugrim trembled violently. He looked at Caesar, the mockery in his eyes vanished, and his face flushed with an extreme, even morbid, feverish redness.

He withdrew the sword that he was about to strike.

His gaze instantly transformed into an obsessive look that sent chills down Caesar's spine.

"I see...I see..."

Fugrim muttered to himself, stretching out his four hands as if to embrace Caesar before him.

"Are you... a gift from my father? Or... something that existed to replace me?"

"No, none of that matters anymore."

Fugrim gave a smile so gentle it made you want to vomit.

"Come with me, the great Dark Prince has taken a liking to you."

"I will love you very well...

Caesar looked at the perverted man who had suddenly gone into heat and felt goosebumps all over his body, and his stomach churned.

“Ugh”

Caesar couldn't hold back and cursed out loud: