Pride and Prejudice

Fulgrim's sword traced perfect arcs through the air, each strike a masterwork of martial artistry. Yet Gorblasta's power klaw knocked them aside with casual ease, the Prime-Ork's movements lacking grace but possessing an economy of motion that spoke of terrifying efficiency.

"That all you got, pretty boy?" Gorblasta's perfect Gothic carried across the battlefield. "All that fancy dancing, and you can't even scratch my paint job?"

Fulgrim's perfect features twisted in anger. This was wrong. He was a Primarch, a son of the Emperor himself. This xenos aberration should be falling before him, not standing there with that insufferable grin. He increased his speed, his blade becoming a silver blur as he unleashed his full repertoire of techniques.

Gorblasta didn't even bother to dodge. He Parried half the strikes with his Choppa, while his power klaw casually batted aside the rest. "You know what your problem is? You think fighting's about looking pretty. Da Dakkabringer, now he understands - it's about results."

The first real blow caught Fulgrim by surprise. Gorblasta's power klaw moved with impossible speed, catching him in the midsection and sending him flying through a ruined wall. Before he could fully regain his feet, the Prime-Ork was on him again.

"Come on then!" Gorblasta roared, his massive frame somehow moving faster than before. "Show me why you thought you could take my head!"

Around them, the battle took on a new dimension. Massive Nobs, each bearing the same checkerboard pattern as their warlord, began systematically dismantling the Emperor's Children's defense lines. These weren't the usual brutal Ork assaults - these were precision strikes against weak points, executed with tactical acumen that no Ork should possess.

Fulgrim launched himself at Gorblasta again, his sword seeking any vulnerability in that perfectly-maintained armor. The Prime-Ork caught his blade between two massive fingers of his power klaw.

"Nice sword," Gorblasta mused, before applying just enough pressure to snap the blade in half. "Was nice, anyway."

The broken weapon fell from Fulgrim's hands as Gorblasta's other arm caught him by the leg. The world became a blur as the Prime-Ork used him like a makeshift flail, slamming him into the ground repeatedly before launching him through several more walls.

As Fulgrim pulled himself from the rubble, his perfect armor now dented and scratched, the first real tendrils of doubt began to creep into his mind. He had never imagined defeat was possible. He was perfection incarnate, wasn't he? The Emperor's perfect son?

"You're thinking about it all wrong," Gorblasta called out, walking through the debris field with measured steps. "You came here expecting some dumb Ork with a big choppa. Instead, you got me - a student of Da Dakkabringer's philosophy."

Fulgrim spat blood, his transhuman healing already working to repair the damage. "You're nothing but a xenos aberration."

"Am I?" Gorblasta's laugh was almost gentle. "Look around you, pretty boy. Look at your sons falling before my Nobs. That's not random violence - that's calculated warfare. Everything Da Dakkabringer taught us through his examples."

Through the gaps in the rubble, Fulgrim could see his Legion failing. The Emperor's Children, who prided themselves on their perfect formations and flawless execution, were being systematically taken apart by Orks who fought with terrible precision.

"The worst part?" Gorblasta continued, his armor's systems humming as he advanced. "This ain't even a proper fight. I'm just warming up for when Da Dakkabringer himself shows up. You?" He gestured dismissively. "You're just practice."

The truth hit Fulgrim harder than any physical blow. He wasn't losing to some lucky Ork - he was being systematically dismantled by a being that had transcended its species' limitations through obsessive study of his brother's warfare doctrine. Every move Gorblasta made was calculated, every strike designed not just to hurt but to teach a lesson in humility.

"Get up," Gorblasta commanded, his voice carrying none of the typical Orkish enthusiasm for violence. Instead, there was something worse - disappointment. "Show me why you thought you could challenge a Prime-Ork. Show me what made you so confident."

Fulgrim rose, his movements no longer carrying their usual fluid grace one of his legs were fractured. His perfect features were marred by dirt and blood, his armor's pristine surface scarred and dented. He had no weapon, no advantage, and for the first time since awakening to his true nature as a Primarch, no certainty.

"I am the Emperor's son," he declared, but the words rang hollow even to his own ears.

"No," Gorblasta corrected, "you're a newly-found child playing at war. You've got power, sure. Skill, definitely. But you ain't got understanding." The Prime-Ork's armor reconfigured, weapons systems deploying and retracting in a hypnotic dance. "You ain't got no idea what real warfare looks like yet."

With devastating speed, Gorblasta closed the distance. His power klaw caught Fulgrim by the throat, lifting the Primarch off his feet. "Let me show you what your brother taught us about the true meaning of combat."

The beating that followed wasn't just physical - it was pedagogical. Every strike was precisely calculated to cause pain without serious damage, every throw designed to demonstrate Fulgrim's helplessness without killing him. Gorblasta wasn't fighting to defeat an enemy; he was teaching a lesson about the price of arrogance.

As Fulgrim lay in the rubble of what had once been a magnificent plaza, he felt something break inside him. Not just his body, which his transhuman physiology was already struggling to heal, but something deeper. His certainty in his own perfection, his unshakeable confidence in his superiority - they lay as shattered as his sword.

"Remember this day," Gorblasta said, standing over the fallen Primarch. "Remember what it feels like to face something beyond your understanding. Da Dakkabringer showed us that there's always more to learn, always room for improvement." The Prime-Ork's voice took on an almost gentle tone. "Maybe now you'll start learning too."

Gorblasta stood amid the rubble of the battlefield, his checkered armor's sensors picking up the telltale signs of precision bombardment. The sky had become a canvas of explosions, each detonation placed with mathematical perfection. He raised his power klaw, gesturing to the heavens with something approaching reverence.

"It's time, boys!" he roared, his perfect Gothic carrying across the battlefield. "Da Dakkabringer's here!"

His enhanced vision caught flashes of movement through the smoke and debris - figures in navy blue power armor striped with red, bearing the double-headed eagle. The Liberty Eagles had arrived, and with surgical precision, they were extracting their fallen brother Primarch. Gorblasta's armor systems recorded everything, comparing the tactical patterns to his archived memories of that fateful day on the 'Da Scrapyard.'

"Perfect," he whispered, watching as waves of coordinated firepower began hammering his position. "Just like before."

The bombardment intensified, each strike precisely calculated to maximize destruction while minimizing wasted energy. This wasn't the usual Imperial approach of overwhelming force - this was the Dakkabringer's signature style, where every shot served a purpose, every explosion played its part in a greater cacophony of destruction.

Gorblasta ordered a tactical withdrawal to his Iron Citadel, a massive fortress that rose from the landscape like a fusion of Orkish ambition and advanced engineering. As he moved through its corridors, a Nob rushed up to him, bearing news from the void.

"Boss! Da fleet's nearly at da Bludskrag system! Everything's ready!"

The Prime-Ork's face split into a knowing grin. These forces that the Liberty Eagles were currently engaging? Mere cannon fodder, boys grown on this world to maintain appearances. His real WAAAGH! was approaching - a force he'd spent years preparing, equipped with technology reverse-engineered from genetic memories.

From his throne room atop the Iron Citadel, Gorblasta could see the massive pyramid in the distance. His enhanced senses detected the subtle energy signatures that marked it as an observation post. "Watching me, ain't you?" he muttered. "Good. See what your example built."

Sudden visions flashed through his mind - Steel warriors moving with impossible precision, gods made of living metal that could reshape reality itself. Gorblasta shook his head, dismissing them as messages from Gork and Mork, showing him future worthy opponents. The gods had guided him to this exact spot, told him to build his empire here, promised him that the Dakkabringer would come to test his worth.

The Iron Citadel's shields hummed with power, their protection derived from STC templates that his forces had discovered and modified. Gorblasta didn't understand half the terminology his Mek Boy used to describe the systems - words like "quantum harmonics" and "plasma containment" meant nothing to him. But he understood results, and the fusion reactors hadn't exploded yet, which was more than could be said for typical Orkish power sources.

"Da difference between me and other Warbosses," he mused aloud, watching multiple tactical displays, "is that they just want to fight. Me? I want to prove something." His power armor whirred as he adjusted his position on the throne. "Want to show that we understood da lesson you taught us, Dakkabringer. That proper dakka needs proper thinking."

Around him, his fortress buzzed with activity. Unlike the crude Orkish strongholds of his lesser kin, every system here was maintained with religious dedication. His followers had learned that the path to perfect dakka required perfect preparation.

"Come on then," Gorblasta challenged the distant pyramid. "Show me if I learned your lessons right. Show me if all this..." he gestured at his technological empire, "is worthy of da one who showed us what real dakka looks like."

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"Hey you! You're finally awake," Franklin's voice carried its usual warmth and humor as Fulgrim's eyes flickered open in the pristine medical bay. The wounded Primarch's perfect features were still marred by fading bruises, a testament to the savage beating Gorblasta had delivered.

Fulgrim's consciousness returned in waves, each bringing with it fresh memories of humiliation. The casual way the Prime-Ork had dismantled him, the mockery in those unnaturally intelligent eyes, and worst of all – the constant references to his brother's superiority.

"You..." Fulgrim's perfect features contorted with barely contained rage. "This is your fault." his pride seeking any target for his wounded ego.

Franklin raised an eyebrow, his casual posture unchanged. "My fault? Did I tell you to challenge a Prime-Ork to single combat?"

"You taught them!" Fulgrim spat, trying to sit up despite his body's protests. "That... that aberration spoke of you like some sort of prophet. Said you showed them the 'true meaning of dakka.' What did you do, brother? What corruption did you spread among the xenos?"

"Corruption?" Franklin chuckled, the sound only stoking Fulgrim's anger further. "I just fought them. Efficiently. Effectively. If they learned something from that, well..." He shrugged. "Can't fault them for having good taste in tactics."

Fulgrim's hands clenched the medical bed's edges, his knuckles white with tension, the edges began to bend. "You think this is amusing? That monster made a mockery of me! Of my Legion! And you sit there laughing?"

"What would you prefer?" Franklin's smile remained, but something shifted in his eyes. "Should I weep for your wounded pride? Console you over losing a fight you shouldn't have started? Tell me, brother, what response would soothe your ego?"

"You couldn't have done better!" Fulgrim snapped, his voice rising. "That creature... its strength, its speed... You with your reliance on firearms and distance. You wouldn't have lasted a minute in close combat with it!"

Is that what you think?" A note of steel entered Franklin's voice, though his smile never wavered. "That I'm just some gunslinger who can't handle himself in a real fight?"

"I think," Fulgrim said, venom dripping from every word, "that you've built your reputation on overwhelming firepower because you lack the skill for true combat. That Ork... it was stronger than you. I just had an unfortunate match-up."

A deep chuckle echoed in Franklin's mind. "I said it once and I'll say it again, The proud one needs his ears stretched," Khaine's voice carried equal parts amusement and disdain. "He reminds me of my children before I taught them humility. Through pain."

He needs to learn," Franklin responded internally. "And it seems the soft approach isn't working."

"Then teach him as I taught my children," Khaine's voice held centuries of experience in breaking pride. "When they refuse to acknowledge defeat, crush them so thoroughly that denial becomes impossible."

Franklin stood slowly, his jovial demeanor fading like mist in morning sun. "You know, brother, I've been very patient. Understanding, even. You're newly found, still adjusting to who and what you are. I let your blatant ignorance of my orders slide, But there's a difference between pride and foolishness."

"Then prove me wrong," Fulgrim challenged, managing to fully sit up despite his injuries. "Unless you fear facing me without your precious artillery?"

Franklin's eyes met Fulgrim's, and the Fulgrim felt a chill run down his spine despite himself. "Meet me in my private training cage," Franklin said, his voice carrying none of its usual warmth. "Bring your sons if you wish - though I'd recommend against letting them watch their father's second humiliation in as many days. This is better settled privately... Fulgrim."

The way Franklin spoke his name made it sound like a judgment.

As Franklin turned to leave he glanced back, his eyes holding something that made even Fulgrim's hearts skip a beat. "This is me being kind, brother. Don't mistake it for weakness."

As the door hissed shut behind Franklin, Fulgrim was left with the unsettling feeling that he might have gravely miscalculated.

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The cage's crystalline floor reflected the fading image of Eldanesh as it dissolved into motes of crimson light. Franklin stood at its center, power sword held in a relaxed grip, his armor pristine despite the intensity of the bout. The image of the greatest Aeldari warrior-king had once been a nearly insurmountable challenge. Now it was barely a warm-up.

"Why do you dress for war to face a child?" Khaine's voice echoed in his mind, tinged with amusement. "He could not survive three passes against you as you are now. Why such ceremony for one so... limited?"

Franklin adjusted one of his gauntlets, "Because," Franklin said, "if I'm going to teach him a lesson, it needs to be absolute. No room for excuses, no space for him to claim I somehow got lucky or that he wasn't fighting at his best." He looked up at where he sensed Khaine's presence was strongest.

"You have come far, my champion," Khaine observed. "In all the galaxy, you stand among the finest blades I have witnessed and the sole person to be my disciple. Only a handful in all of history could match you now."

Franklin moved through a practice sequence, his movements carrying the weight of countless hours and countless deaths against the phantom of Eldanesh. "High praise, coming from the God of War himself."

"The Emperor's might remains unknown to me although I glimpsed a bit during the War for Altansar," Khaine admitted. "But your brother? He is no mystery. He has talent, yes, but it is untempered by true challenge. He has faced his first defeat, and refused to learn and instead deflecting it on you, his failure."

"This isn't about my standing," Franklin said, running through a series of warm-up forms. "This is about being a proper older brother. Father's busy with his grand designs, so it falls to me to help guide my siblings. And sometimes guidance requires..." He executed a perfect thrust that would have found Eldanesh's heart, had the phantom still been present. "...a firm hand."

"The way of the warrior," Khaine approved. "When words fail, let blade speak to blade. Show him the difference between his imagined perfection and true mastery."

Franklin took his position in the center of the arena, feeling the weight of the Death Sword at his side. He had come far from the days when he first found himself in this galaxy, far from his first encounters with the various threats that plagued humanity. Each battle, each duel, each war had added layers to his expertise. The jovial exterior he presented to the world masked centuries of relentless training, of pushing himself to match and exceed every challenge.

"Time to be the big brother," Franklin murmured, sensing Fulgrim's approach. "Time to teach a lesson about pride and its price."

The arena's lights dimmed slightly, as if the chamber itself was preparing for the coming storm. In these moments before Fulgrim's arrival, Franklin reflected on the path that had led him here. His brother saw him as some crude practitioner of overwhelming firepower, never guessing that Franklin's doctrine of maximum dakka had grown from a deep understanding of warfare in all its forms. To truly master the art of destruction from afar, one first had to master combat in all its aspects.

A lesson Fulgrim was about to learn the hard way.

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The training cage's harsh illumination cast stark shadows across Fulgrim's features as he moved toward the weapon rack. His wounds from the battle with Gorblasta had healed, leaving no physical scars - but the damage to his pride remained raw and bleeding. His hand reached for one of the power swords, seeking the familiar comfort of a blade.

"Hold up there, brother." Franklin's voice carried that perpetual hint of amusement that Fulgrim was beginning to find increasingly irritating. The Liberty Eagle's Primarch tossed something through the air - a sword that made Fulgrim's eyes widen in recognition.

It was identical to his broken blade from Chemos, down to the smallest detail. The weight, the balance, even the slight wear patterns he'd come to know intimately during his time as planetary governor. Franklin must have had it fabricated within hours of his rescue.

"Wouldn't want you making excuses about unfamiliar weapons," Franklin said with that infuriating smirk. "Or claiming you lost because you didn't have your favorite toy."

Fulgrim gripped the sword's hilt tightly, his perfect features arranged in a mask of composed dignity. "I don't make excuses, brother."

No? Someone was, earlier" Franklin took his position across the cage, his stance deceptively casual.

Studying his brother's form, Fulgrim felt a surge of contempt. Franklin stood there with an open guard, making no effort to adopt any of the classical stances. This was the warrior who had earned such reverence from that Prime-Ork? This gunslinger who couldn't even be bothered to take a proper defensive position?

How hard could this be?' Fulgrim thought, his analytical mind already plotting out the perfect sequence of strikes. His brother might be renowned for his firepower, but this was bladework - Fulgrim's domain of expertise. He had mastered every school of swordsmanship on Chemos, had developed his own innovations in the art. Franklin, for all his supposed tactical genius, was a soldier who relied on overwhelming firepower. In close combat, surely, the gap in their abilities would be obvious.

Fulgrim's blade moved in a perfect arc, a thrust that would have skewered any normal opponent through the heart. His superhuman senses tracked every microsecond of the movement, his mind already planning the follow-up strikes that would demonstrate his superiority.

And then, there was darkness.