Faced with this augnted Mon-keigh charging toward him, Kaelah Saeryn, a Warlock of the Isovin Craftworld, didn't even shift his footing. He simply raised his blade.
In his vast lifespan, he had seen too many of these creatures—reckless, burning with a short-lived heat, believing they could challenge eons of wisdom and artistry with a montary surge of raw courage.
This one was no exception.
His footsteps were too heavy, his center of gravity pressed too far forward. Though his speed was marginally impressive, his window for changing maneuvers had been compressed to the absolute limit. Saeryn stood motionless, his psychic power manifesting instinctively; the Mon-keigh's crude weapon hissed past his pauldron, leaving only a sharp whistle in the air. Simultaneously, the Warlock raised his Witchblade—a weapon in deep resonance with his own soul—and moved to trace a lethal line across the augnted creature's throat.
The young Astartes twisted his body mid-motion with a violent effort. His suit's servos let out a high-pitched scream as he forcibly altered his trajectory a split second before the fatal strike.
The blade hissed across his neck guard, carving a deep furrow. Sparks erupted from the point of contact, falling away alongside shards of shattered ceramite.
The Astartes instinctively retreated a step, his crimson lenses betraying a clear mix of wariness and lingering shock, overlaid by a burgeoning, visible thirst for battle.
The Warlock gave him no ti to recalibrate. He lunged forward, drawing psychic energy from the Immaterium and flooding it into the circuits of his Witchblade. Instantly, the steel ignited with dancing arcs of lightning. He was a Warlock of Isovin, a warrior seeking vengeance for his kin, carrying the heavy burden of finding hope for his dying race.
Amidst the frost and wreckage, the Astartes vaulted and dived, desperately evading the lightning strikes and the lethal glimrs of the Warlock's blade.
Hum—
A dissonant psychic hum rang out. Enkidu was forced to throw himself backward, risking the exposure of his midsection as the pale blue blade swept past his face—close enough to see the individual particles of energy dancing along its edge.
At that sa mont, the Warlock ruthlessly tore open the floor beneath him.
The power-armored warrior crashed into the debris of the deck below, raising a cloud of thick smoke. Without pausing to cry out, he plunged his blade into the rubble and heaved, tossing a massive chunk of unrecognizable ceramite salvage upward. The Witchblade slamd into the scrap with a resonant crack; the ceramite groaned and shattered, fulfilling its final purpose as a shield.
Using that brief distraction, Enkidu slipped out from the Warlock's fluid, relentless assault and regained his combat stance.
This is bad.
The thought flashed through Enkidu's mind in a heartbeat. Asking a newly armored initiate to duel an Aeldari Warlock was an absurdly tall order—because beyond the psychic might, the Warlock had that sword.
He stared at the Warlock's longblade. Faint blue light skipped along the edge, looking as if a constant stream of liquid were cascading down the steel.
That was a Power Weapon. One clean hit would result in him being decommissioned right along with his suit.
I need a way to break this montum.
Enkidu gritted his teeth. Orbs of fire coalesced from the void to et the incoming lightning strikes, and he charged at the Warlock once more.
His nerves throbbed with the strain of drawing psychic power. His HUD flashed warnings of servo overload. Yet, amidst the pain and the noise, Enkidu achieved a state of singular, chilling focus.
He altered his direction and center of gravity four tis in just a few strides. He lunged through a gap created where fire t lightning, swinging his Charnabal Sabre with a heavy, crushing montum.
The Warlock leaped with feline agility, dodging the sabre by a hair's breadth. Simultaneously, the Witchblade swept down from a rear-flank angle, aid at crippling the Astartes' power pack. Enkidu's expression turned grim; he unleashed a psychic shockwave that slamd into the side of the Witchblade.
The power sword let out a resonant twang, forced to slide harmlessly past his side, shaving off a layer of warband-purple paint.
You Mon-keigh... you desecrate the gift of the Warp! Your technique is inferior to the children of my people! the Warlock hissed telepathically.
Eh, as long as it works against you, it's good enough. If you think my technique is so ugly, feel free to teach a better way yourself.
Oh, that won't be necessary. I have no interest in teaching a beast, especially one that worships the Thirsty Lady.
That's a sha. I guess I'll just have to dig out your Soulstone and let you "teach" properly then.
Enkidu spewed trash-talk with cold indifference, while a secondary layer of his mind watched the Warlock's every twitch with extre caution. After all, he was still just a recruit with a few years of training and a severe lack of combat experience, whereas every Warlock had lived for eons—each one a walking treasury of martial lore.
Then, the Warlock realized with horror that the augnted Mon-keigh was beginning to evolve at a terrifying speed.
At first, it was the sound of the blade. The whistling shriek of the air was suppressed as invisible psychic energy wrapped around the steel, reinforcing the edge while silencing the wind of the heavy swings.
Next ca the adjustnt of power and footwork. Every strike was becoming more delicate than the last; the mont the Warlock let his guard down, a closing feint would instantly transform into the "kiss of death." More power was being coiled in the torso, while the footsteps beca deceptively soft and hesitant.
After a careless opening where he had dominated the boy, the Warlock now found himself forced to employ more and more of his esoteric techniques just to avoid being caught in a mistake by the young Astartes.
Terrifying adaptability.
Kaelah Saeryn stared at the Astartes with a mixture of hatred and morbid curiosity.
Even though he had already compromised several sections of that ragged power armor, the Mon-keigh simply used psychic force to hold the suit together and kept fighting.
What truly chilled him, however, was the creature's application of psychic power. At the start, he had been like a gorilla swinging a club; now, his presence was becoming formless. Saeryn could no longer even feel the ripples in the Warp when the boy manifested his power.
He couldn't tell if the Mon-keigh's skill had surpassed his own, or if it was simply a matter of raw, innate psychic talent.
In a flash of motion, he was forced to leap again, engaging the Astartes in a blur of elegant Aeldari bladework.
Amidst the cold, desolate chambers of the starship, the two figures entwined in a dance—but the lead had quietly shifted from the Warlock to the Astartes.
Every organ felt as if it were on fire.
Enkidu breathed heavily, the freezing air pumping into his lungs providing only a montary cooling before they sank back into a scorching hell.
The scent of copper leaked from every breath. His body, far from its peak, was suffering the wear and tear of extre over-exertion. Bones were hairline-fractured, ligants were strained; pain was generated in a continuous stream, only to be dampened by his engineered nervous system.
Yet, in the clash of blade and sword, he felt his mind sharpening, his battle-lust growing hotter. It was as if a seed were breaking its husk, nurtured by the intensity of the struggle.
If daily practice was the barest of nutrients, then high-intensity combat was the sunlight and rain he craved. He needed this to grow.
Enkidu smiled. He swung his sabre—now notched and scarred by the power sword—and, at the mont the Witchblade bit into the steel at the right angle, he gave his hilt a sudden, violent twist.
The Warlock let out a cry of shock. The Witchblade, which should have sliced cleanly through the sabre, was held fast by the Mon-keigh's psychic grip. Then, the scrap-tal of the sabre, along with the power sword trapped within it, went flying across the room.
Now, we enter the next phase.
The Astartes spat a glob of pink, bloodied foam and proceeded to shatter the Eldar's nose with a brutal punch.
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