Nazareth stood being hugged by Karl in silence, the feeling of nearly dying once again overwhelming him. Karl, meanwhile, was thanking and shouting that his god had won the duel against the foul daemon.
For a long moment, Nazareth could do nothing but breathe.
Each breath scraped like broken glass through his chest. The world tilted and swayed, colours bleeding at the edges of his vision as if reality itself were losing interest in holding him upright. The axe still jutted through his left side, its haft slick with his blood, its weight dragging at him like an anchor meant to pull him into oblivion. He did not yet dare remove it. He knew better. He had learned that lesson more times than any man should survive.
Karl's grip tightened, almost desperate, as though letting go might cause his god to vanish like smoke. The Kriegsman was laughing and crying in the same breath, his voice hoarse, cracking as he shouted praise to Luminar, to Nazareth, to any power that might listen.
Nazareth slowly raised his uninjured hand and rested it on Karl's back.
"Enough," he rasped.
The word barely carried, a ruined thing dragged from a throat half-filled with blood. Karl froze instantly, terror flashing across his face as he realised just how weak the voice sounded.
"My—my lord?" he stammered, pulling back just enough to look up at him. "You live. You won. I saw it. The daemon's head—"
"I know," Nazareth said quietly.
He looked down at Skarbrand's corpse.
The Bloodthirster lay sprawled in the crater like a toppled monument, his titanic body already beginning to unravel. Blackened flesh cracked and split, bleeding fire and embers rather than blood. The severed neck smoked violently, raw Immaterium boiling out into the air in furious, soundless screams. The axe in Nazareth's side shuddered once—then dissolved into ash and cinders, its substance rejected by a reality no longer held together by the daemon's will.
Nazareth staggered as the weight vanished.
Karl reacted instantly, catching him before his knees hit the ground. Around them, the dust continued to settle, revealing the wider battlefield beyond the crater's rim.
The war was dying.
Daemons shrieked as they were dragged screaming back into the Warp, their forms unravelling like bad dreams upon waking. Some fled outright, wings beating frantically as terror finally eclipsed bloodlust. Others simply vanished where they stood, unmade by the death of Khorne's favoured son.
The human soldiers saw it too.
A roar rose from the ruins—ragged, disbelieving, triumphant. Men and women battered beyond reason raised broken weapons and bloody fists, screaming victory into the smoke-choked sky. Some fell to their knees. Others laughed hysterically. A few simply stared, minds unable to process that the thing which had stalked their nightmares now lay dead at the feet of a single figure.
Nazareth did not share their triumph.
He felt hollow.
The rage that had carried him through the duel was gone, burned away, leaving only exhaustion so profound it felt like gravity itself had increased. His thoughts moved slowly, like warriors trudging through deep mud, each step an act of defiance against collapse.
"Karl," he said.
"Yes, my lord!" Karl snapped upright instantly, despite still supporting his weight.
"Signal the command cadres. The daemons are breaking. Press them—but do not pursue beyond the perimeter." He paused, swallowing blood. "No heroics. We've lost enough."
Karl nodded fervently. "At once. By your will."
He hesitated, eyes flicking to Nazareth's wounds. "You… you need the apothecaries. Immediately."
Nazareth gave a faint, humourless huff. "I need a great many things."
Karl half-carried, half-dragged him toward the edge of the crater as medicae teams and officers began rushing forward, drawn by equal parts awe and dread. As they moved, Nazareth felt the eyes of thousands upon him—some worshipful, some fearful, some simply desperate for meaning after so much death.
He did not look back at them.
Instead, his gaze lingered on the dissolving corpse of Skarbrand.
Khorne's chosen. Cast down. Slain by a mortal who should not have survived the fall from orbit, let alone the duel that followed.
The Immaterium recoiled.
Nazareth felt it—subtle, distant, yet unmistakable. A pressure withdrawing, like a vast, furious presence turning its attention elsewhere. Khorne would not forget this. Gods did not forget humiliation. He had not ended a war. He had merely written its next chapter in blood.
As the medicae and entourage of guards finally reached him, and hands moved to stabilise his failing body, Nazareth allowed himself one last thought before darkness crept in at the edges of his vision.
I am still standing.
The medicae convoy had barely begun to move when a new voice rang out across the broken plaza—clear, commanding, and laden with authority.
"By the Throne… it is done."
High Inquisitor Erich emerged from the smoke, his long coat scorched and torn, rosette gleaming dully against layers of ash. Blood marked his temple, yet his eyes burned with fierce, reverent certainty. He strode forward without hesitation, brushing past orderlies as he came to a halt beside Nazareth's stretcher.
Behind him hurried Administrative Admin Jill.
Her robes were torn and soot-stained; the once-pristine adrathic weapon at her side was cracked and useless. She had only tired eyes, shaking hands, and a face drawn tight with disbelief. She stared at Nazareth as if afraid he might vanish if she blinked.
Erich dropped to one knee.
Not for ceremony. Not for spectacle.
He bowed his head and began to pray.
"Witness this," he proclaimed, his voice carrying across the ruins. "Witness the hand of Luminar made manifest. A daemon prince lies slain. A world yet stands. Let this day be remembered not in ink, but in faith."
Jill followed, lowering herself to the ground. She pressed her forehead to the cracked, sandy stone, shouting desperately. Around them, soldiers followed, their helmets coming off. Weapons were lowered. Thousands knelt amid ash and ruin, their voices rising together in broken, grateful praise.
Karl stood rigid beside Nazareth, tears carving pale tracks through the grime on his face as he murmured thanks between ragged breaths.
When the prayers ended, Erich rose and turned to the gathered forces.
"Today," he declared, "you did not merely survive. You endured. And because you endured, humanity endures."
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then the cheers erupted.
They rolled through the ruins like thunder—raw, unrestrained, filled with relief and disbelief. Soldiers embraced, laughed, screamed, and wept all at once. The sound followed as Nazareth's stretcher was lifted and carried toward the city gates, banners torn yet still flying above the walls.
Civilians emerged from shelters and shattered buildings, drawn by the noise. Some cheered. Some knelt. Some reached out as the broken figure of their saviour passed, tears streaming freely.
Nazareth barely registered it.
By the time they reached the inner sanctum of the fortress-city, the pain had dulled into a distant haze. Lights blurred overhead. Voices faded. Medicae worked with grim efficiency, sealing wounds and stabilising what little remained intact.
Darkness claimed him.
(AN: Hope you enjoyed)