The strongest astral army in Warhammer 40K

Unbreakable Defense - Glory Arena

The steel-forged dueling platform floated above the shattered planet's orbit, surrounded by a cold, spectating fleet—the Black Mechanicus's observation station gleamed with a crimson single eye, the Necromancer's royal mark glowed blue in the void, and the Eldar pirate ship's streamlined silhouette resembled a blade poised to strike.

As Mortalian's rotting boots stepped onto the metal platform, rust stains immediately spread across the adamantite ground. His respirator spewed out a yellowish-green mist, the sound like the buzzing of a thousand flies.

"Ah, my dear brother—" He spread his rotting wings, maggots falling from his joints. "You still love acting so much, even your duels need an audience… What, are you afraid no one will collect your corpse when I kill you?"

Guilliman's fingertips tapped lightly on the hilt of the "Imperial Sword," the blue and gold power armor gleaming under the starlight. His response was as calm as if he were speaking in parliament:

"I'm more worried about your bunch of cowardly spectators—" He glanced at the writhing Nurgles in the Death Guard fleet, "—when I'm tearing you to pieces later, will they eat your scraps like snacks?"

Mortarian's laughter caused the metal on the platform to begin to rust.

"I heard there's a plague sweeping through your Five Hundred Worlds lately? Oh, I'm so sorry, it's probably because I accidentally left some souvenirs when I visited Macragge last time." He tapped his rotting breastplate. "By the way, how many of your 'Perfect Warriors' are still intact? Want me to lend you a few Death Guards as templates?"

Guilliman's pupils contracted slightly.

"At least my Legion won't be like yours—" The Primarch suddenly deployed a holographic projection, displaying a battlefield log of infighting within the Death Guard, **"—Stabbing yourself in the back by your own people. Oh wait, isn't that what your beloved Typhons did?"**

Mortalian's giant scythe "Silence" suddenly shattered the hologram, splattering pus everywhere:

"Your mouth is still so foul! No wonder Father preferred to go into seclusion rather than see you back then!"

Guilliman's sneer disappeared.

Golden light exploded.

As the Emperor's Sword ripped through the plague fog and aimed straight for Mortalian's throat, the observing fleet simultaneously activated their recorders—no one saw when Guilliman drew his sword, just as no one noticed the bulging veins on the Primarch's temples.

**"You! Dare! Mention! Him!"** Each sword strike was accompanied by Guilliman's words squeezed out from between his teeth, the blade slicing through Mortalian's corrupted power armor, sending sparks flying.

The Death Guard Primarch laughed as he parried with his giant scythe, deliberately letting the pus from the blade splatter onto Guilliman's face:

"You've broken down? Oh dear, even a perfect Primarch can get angry?" He suddenly lowered his voice, "Do you know why Father chose me instead of you? Because at least I dare to admit he's a cold-blooded bastard—"

The Emperor's Sword suddenly erupted with unprecedented golden light, severing the skeleton of Mortalian's left wing in a single strike. Putrid feathers swirled in the air, and Guilliman's eyes burned with chilling fury.

**"This sword strike is for Koss!"**

In the stands, the Necromancer Lord of Space nodded slightly, while the Eldar Prophet covered her ears—she could hear the shrill screams of two Primarch souls colliding echoing through the Warp.

**Duel Platform - 47 Minutes**

The Emperor's Sword tore a sixth crack in Mortalian's rotting breastplate, but Guilliman's breathing had become heavy. His left leg armor had been ripped open by the Plague Scythe, and yellowish-green pus was slowly eroding the adamantite coating.

"Tired, my perfect brother?" Mortarian's voice came through the respirator, echoing damply. He deliberately slowed his pace, his giant scythe trailing behind him, leaving bubbling, corroded marks on the metal floor. "Your swordsmanship teacher didn't teach you... ***A war of attrition is for reckless brutes?***"

Guilliman didn't answer. His tactical goggles flashed a warning of physical depletion—trace amounts of plague spores inhaled into his lungs, left arm servo system efficiency reduced by 23%, and power backpack energy remaining at 41%. But what was truly deadly was the **neuro-corrosive agent** constantly emanating from Mortalian, invading his circulatory system with every breath.

As the Emperor's Sword swung down again, Mortarion suddenly sidestepped, his rotting wings unfurling violently. Countless maggots spewed from between the feathers, exploding into acidic mist the instant they touched the air. Guilliman immediately held his breath and retreated, but a few drops of pus still splashed onto his visor—

**Sizzle!**

The visual sensors immediately went blurry, and the tactical data stream turned into distorted gibberish.

**“Surprise~”** Mortalian’s giant scythe suddenly changed trajectory, the attack originally aimed at the neck strangely turning towards the knee. Guilliman barely managed to block, but the barbs on the scythe tore apart the hydraulic hoses in his leg.

From the spectator stands, the Sage of the Black Mechanicus let out a mechanical sigh: **"Analysis: The Death Guard Primarch violated Article 9 of the Duel Agreement—the prohibition of biological weapons."**

The Space Necromancer Lord's jaw snapped open: **"Disgraceful...but effective."**

Guilliman knelt on one knee, the Emperor's Sword planted on the platform for balance. Mortarion did not finish him off immediately, but instead slowly paced around the wounded Primarch, the tip of the giant scythe occasionally scraping against Guilliman's shoulder armor, producing a teeth-grinding scraping sound.

"Do you know the difference between you and me?" The Death Guard Primarch leaned closer, his respirator almost touching Guilliman's damaged visor. "You're always thinking about 'fairness'... while I only care about 'results'."

He suddenly struck Guilliman on the back of the head with the scythe handle, knocking the Primarch to the ground on the platform. The rotting boots stepped on the gleaming Imperial Sword, pus flowing down its blade.

"Look at your pathetic state—" Mortarian's voice suddenly boomed across the battlefield via full-band broadcast, "This is the 'Imperial Regent' you all worship! He can't even protect his own sword!"

The Deathguard fleet erupted in twisted cheers, and the Nurgles danced a frenzied dance.

Guilliman's finger suddenly twitched.

Motarian was too focused on humiliation to notice—

1. Beneath the corroded mask of the original, the corners of his mouth slightly curled up.

2. After the Emperor's Sword came into contact with the pus, the gem at the end of the hilt turned from gold to dark red.

3. Above the orbit, the super angel's psionic resonance suddenly stopped.

Russell abruptly stood up on the observation deck: **"No! Lord Guilliman is—"**

Mortarion's giant scythe was already raised high above his head, ready to deliver the final blow—

**"Farewell, the end—huh?!"**

The Emperor's Sword suddenly burst forth with a blinding light!