Warhammer: In the Name of Nirvana

Chapter 670 Sigismund

"Abaddon...lost?"

"Abaddon lost."

Two sentences with the same content, but two completely opposite voices, symbolizing two different attitudes and two fighting brothers with their own ideas: In the aura of the most magnificent torch in the entire Dawnbreaker camp, Bayar and Hector, as enthusiastic hosts, as referees, spectators and potential players of this real sword duel, naturally have the best viewing position next to the fire circle.

They are with Juba Khan, Koswein and Radron and other strong men, watching countless champion swordsmen shed their sweat and blood: and the duel between Sigismund and Abaddon is definitely the most anticipated of all the performances, attracting the most attention. Hector even left the Primarch specifically just to watch this legendary Tianwangshan battle.

He thought it would be a legend.

You know, more than a decade ago, the legendary duel between Dantioch and Sigismund was still vivid in people's minds, and Abaddon was also an old friend of the Dawnbreaker Legion. Morgan's descendants knew very well the gap in strength between Abaddon and Dantioch: then his duel with Sigismund would be even more exciting.

"I originally thought so."

Hector muttered to himself, with a few traces of shock in the corners of his eyes: everything was caused by the current situation by the campfire.

Abaddon, and Sigismund, they were facing each other, very close, and their shadows left a twisted and hideous trace on the sand with the flickering light of the torch: the body of the Moon Wolf leaned back, and the iconic sky-high braids fell like wheat in fear, and the Fist of the Empire moved forward like a beast, with the blade stuck firmly under Abaddon's neck.

A little further forward, there would be a corpse of the Moon Wolf falling here.

This was the 124th second since the duel began: but the winner had already been decided.

It was incredibly fast: Hector was particularly unbelievable.

Because he was standing in a relatively backward position (he really didn't want to block the view of any unlucky person), Hector could see the surrounding situation clearly and see the reactions of most of the audience to such a scene.

The vast majority of the audience behaved the same as him: astonished, surprised, suspicious or whispering, and many people, like Abaddon on the sand, lingered in their ease of the last second, and had no time to show shock on their faces.

Only a very small number of people, that is, those veterans with the same qualifications as Bayar, still maintained their composure. These people looked at this victory silently but easily, and were not surprised at Sigismund's victory.

"How is this possible?"

"How is this impossible?"

Bayar laughed.

"If you think about it, Abaddon has no advantage at all."

"Recall it carefully, Hector: how did Sigismund win?"

"He..."

Hector blinked. He certainly knew what happened in those two minutes.

He remembered how Abaddon and Sigismund began their duel in silence. Neither of them announced their names or the legions they belonged to, because there was no need: they were both famous throughout the Great Crusade, and when they drew their swords, all the onlookers held their breath nervously.

Sigismund was wearing a gorgeous power armor, and the Stormfang he held attracted most people's attention. After all, it was a weapon belonging to a gene primarch. Standing opposite the Imperial Fists, Abaddon wrapped himself in his destructive Terminator armor as usual. The countless repaired battle scars and glorious victory medals on it told that the history of this armor was as old as the Shadow Moon Wolves.

Abaddon's weapons are a long sword and his power armor: but they all know that the real weapon of the Luna Wolves is his heavy Terminator Armor and his unlimited brute force.

In this comparison, people seem to instinctively think that Abaddon, who looks three times bigger than Sigismund, is the one with better equipment and more preparation, and thus has the advantage from the beginning: Hector thinks so too.

However, now calm down and think carefully, the situation does not seem to be like this: the choice of the two legion champions for their respective armors has determined that Sigismund's advantage lies in his agility, while Abaddon's advantage lies in his defense. At the same time, the attack range of the Storm Fang, a giant sword, is much wider than Abaddon's sword and power claws, which greatly increases Sigismund's chance of winning.

But the real problem is that although Abaddon seems to have a stronger defense, Sigismund is holding the sword of the Primarch: in front of the Storm Fang, the defense of the Terminator Armor seems to be a joke. As long as Sigismund can wield this giant sword, Abaddon's proud defense counterattack will be invalidated in an instant and become a fatal flaw.

And the reality is obvious: Sigismund can indeed wield this giant sword.

Not only that, he uses it quite skillfully.

And the only thing he lacks may be a little touch: this was shown at the beginning of the duel. At the beginning, Abaddon was the active attacker who had the upper hand.

When the captain of Horus launched his attack like a whirlwind, even the giant torch that was tens of meters high had to twist its body reluctantly in front of his claws to show its submission. The sparks from the friction of the weapons raised white mist on the ground, as bright as day.

In the face of such a fierce attack, even Sigismund would not fight hard: Dorne's champion escaped from the deadly attack of the Shadow Wolf like an agile shadow. His originally elegant rhythm did not reach the ultimate perfection because of the heavy Storm Fang.

But it was only this time:

When Abaddon launched an attack again, and Sigismund resisted again and took the opportunity to escape, the movements of the Imperial Fist had become graceful, leaving Abaddon with only the sound of the dark wind. When the Shadow Wolf turned around a little clumsily, Sigismund did not take the opportunity to launch an attack. He rotated the giant sword that needed to be lifted with both hands, and adapted to its weight for the last time.

The next time they fought, the Luna Wolf didn't even catch a shadow.

The Imperial Fists used refined deflection, fighting and skills to protect themselves. The mastery of the giant sword in their hands was visible to the naked eye, and even the dullest warrior among the spectators could see it: when the battle lasted for a minute, Sigismund still did not take the initiative to attack, but Abaddon had gradually become the passive one. Although he still rushed again and again, this was the only thing he could do.

The rhythm turned unconsciously, and the sign of rebellion was that when they fought again, the Imperial Fists did not retreat again: the giant sword that ordinary warriors could not even lift, in Sigismund's hand, drew a snake-like arc, blocking the long sword and power claws of the Luna Wolf, clamping it tightly, and Abaddon could not move even though the veins on his face bulged.

The stalemate lasted for three or four seconds. The coldness of the Imperial Fists and the fury of the Luna Wolves were now fully manifested. They each took a step back. Sigismund's figure was as stubborn as the character of his infamous gene father, as immovable as a stone. On the contrary, Abaddon's Terminator Armor shook slightly before he stood firm.

There was a second of silence, and then the confrontation again was a head-on confrontation that attracted countless cheers. Under the cold moonlight, it kept staggering, making the eyes of the onlookers hurt: the warriors who formed the wall either stood indifferently like rocks, or were as nervous and expectant as children, witnessing these two most powerful warriors, two of the three heroes of the Great Crusade, now charging at each other without stopping, like knights who would not stop until death.

Once, again, and again.

Frequent clashes were even faster than the seconds ticking. In the blink of an eye, there were three or four exchanges: Abaddon seemed to have the upper hand, but on the Terminator Armor, there were real marks left. On the chest and the shoulder armor near the neck, the Storm Fangs only made the slightest contact, leaving several hideous scars, revealing the connection between the steel plate and the cable under the paint.

Sigismund looked there, with a cold light flashing in his ruthless pupils.

There were no clearly visible wounds on the Son of Dorne's body, but it could not change the fact that he was retreating step by step in the battle, retreating from the blazing torch to the edge of the darkness, only a few meters away from his brothers. The power claws of the Luna Wolf passed by his unprotected head again and again. With twenty or thirty seconds of scorching battle, Abaddon's patience was rapidly consumed.

Patience has never been the strong point of the Luna Wolf.

But it is the Imperial Fist.

When the battle reached the 115th second, Sigismund's last block had become a work of art in the eyes of others. He was no longer simply attacking or defending, but perfectly combining the two. His defense could expose Abaddon's fatal flaws, and his attack could deflect Abaddon's attack.

Most importantly, when he made this series of slight movements, he was almost carelessly waving the primarch's greatsword: Stormfang's disintegration field and Abaddon's power claws splashed out bursts of sparks, which was a threat to both warriors.

Just as the Luna Wolf frowned, instinctively took a step back, and recklessly wanted to end this round of confrontation.

Sigismund, moved!

The tense face was illuminated by the sparks: Abaddon's pupils instantly widened.

He breathed heavily, wanting to defend, resist, or simply roar a few times, but the Imperial Fists did not give him this opportunity: Sigismund's footsteps were so fast that others could not see clearly, so fast that they could beat their heartbeats. Even Bayar and Koswein could only squint their eyes and keep up with Sigismund's movements when he was concentrating.

The last moment, it was still four or five meters away. In the blink of an eye, the sword tip was already pointing directly at the chest of the Shadow Moon Wolf.

Those scars, and the scars that seemed to be caused unintentionally in the previous duel, each of them was a breakthrough for the Imperial Fists: decades of hard training forged this miracle. Although Sigismund had never worn Terminator armor, now even if he closed his eyes, relying only on his breathing and instinct, he could accurately point out all the characteristics of every style of Terminator armor in the empire, every joint and every weakness.

Abaddon's, especially important.

The blade of the Black Knight pierced out from the night, faster than the moonlight in the sky. Before anyone could scream, Stormfang had already bitten the scar that had been pierced: the wound closest to the core, the most vulnerable wound between the internal metal joints and the soft armor.

It was pierced.

The indestructibility that had protected the Luna Wolf for hundreds of years was now as weak as a piece of butter in front of a hot knife. Before Abaddon could even exhale the next breath, Sigismund's blade had already deeply penetrated his Terminator Armor.

It was over.

Everyone knew it.

The Imperial Fists did not pause, did not say any irrelevant nonsense, and did not even breathe. His wrist turned white due to excessive force. The blade pushed forward with a harsh metal friction sound, breaking through the metal frame structure and ceramic steel plating. The Luna Wolf's logo was broken, and the layers of cables were bitten through. The additional shield generator collapsed in front of the Primarch's weapons and the will of the Imperial Fists: the chest of the entire Terminator Armor was torn from the inside out.

Until its neck and heart.

Abaddon stopped breathing, because the shining blade was against his neck, and it was only a little bit away from the fatal artery. His lips were wide open, forgetting all physiological instincts, until the tightening lungs made his confused mind fall into a blank caused by slight suffocation. The Luna Wolf rolled his eyes and looked at the Imperial Fists, who had already won, in disbelief.

Sigismund stood there, his face as firm as a rock.

No sadness or joy.

He should at least be happy.

At this moment, such a strange thought popped into Abaddon's mind: failure did not make him feel so angry, but Sigismund's too terrifying calmness, without any enjoyment of fighting and victory, made the Shadow Moon Wolf shudder for no reason.

He always felt that something had left Sigismund forever, but they should not have left all of them: because the next moment, a simple smile appeared on the face of the Imperial Fist, and only then did Abaddon breathe heavily as if he had been pardoned.

"You almost scared me, brother."

He complained in a low voice, calmly accepting his failure: he himself did not expect that he would be so calm, perhaps because he witnessed the moment when Sigismund swung the sword, and that moment convinced him.

"How long have you been training for this?"

"All the time."

The Imperial Fists answered like this. They stood in silence, and heard the sparse applause and cheers from the onlookers, which quickly became as warm as a tsunami: Abaddon grinned, unwilling to make himself look boring again, turned around and stroked his Terminator Armor with heartache, and his figure quickly disappeared not far away.

Sigismund did not stop either. He left the cheers behind him and carefully put away the Storm Fang lent to him by the Primarch. When he walked towards the Imperial Fists behind him, his steps swept across the Dawnbreakers' positions: and immediately noticed the figure of Dantioch.

He paused for a moment, and nodded to the Legion Champion who had once confronted him.

"Dantioch."

"Sigismund."

"..."

The Imperial Fists were silent for a moment.

"Want to find time to fight again?"

The Iron Warrior raised his eyebrows, spread his hands, and replied rather calmly.

"I can't beat you anymore."

"I know."

The Fist of the Empire nodded, not arguing with Dantioch.

After he left for a while, Dantioch sighed and left silently.

"What do you think he sighed about?"

Not far away, the two Dawnbreakers saw Dantioch's performance: Bayar quietly watched their Grand Duke Salamas leave, then turned around and saw Hector, asking with a hint of testing.

"This..."

Hector thought for a while.

"I think it's: helplessness? It's the helplessness of finding that one's strength has been left behind."

"Really?"

Bayar looked at the direction where Dantioch and Sigismund disappeared.

"Why do I feel like it's relief?"

"Even fortunate?"

"Fortunate?"

Hector was a little curious.

"What is he thankful for?"

"He is thankful that he did not choose to go too far on the path of swordsmanship: he is thankful that he will never become like Sigismund."

"Sigismund looks like this..."