How can a retired savior be considered retired if his price drops to 40,000?

Chapter 305: The Name is "Frame" (Part )
who am I?
Who do I serve?
Why am I standing here?

The clone could not answer any of these three questions, so his meaningless hand-to-hand fight with Dorn continued. From the clone's own perspective, this problem might have entered an endless loop: he needed some time to think about the answers to the above three questions, but Rogge Dorn obviously did not intend to give him enough time.

In theory, the easiest question to answer is probably the third one. The direct reason why the clone is standing here is the subspace wandering, or in other words, after leaving the abominable space controlled by the aliens, the subspace navigation of "Prototype No. 1" failed for some unknown reason. In the midst of the helpless wandering, he had to accept the so-called "trial" of a subspace existence calling himself "Tezcatlipoca", and finally succeeded in making "Prototype No. 1" successfully land on a piece of land that looks like a desert wasteland. In order to make the vehicle successfully get out of this wasteland again, he decided to respond to this so-called "trial" and embarked on a long journey alone. Until now, he was somehow forced to start a meaningless duel with Rogal Dorn, who came from nowhere.

The clone might say so, but referring to the other party's explanation of the same issue from his own perspective, he felt that this answer was frivolous and ridiculous. He didn't want to answer like that, because "Fulgrim" wouldn't want to answer like that. The real "Fulgrim" would come up with a more grand and great reason that goes straight to the core, rather than such a frivolous "forced by the situation".

So, who do I serve?
Fabius? The clone thought. Perhaps not. This Emperor's Children apothecary who had fallen in a strange, blasphemous and unpredictable way might indeed be his "biological father", and might indeed have taught him some limited knowledge. Even if the clone did try to call him "teacher" at a brief stage in his unremarkable life, by now, after he was sold to the Necrons by his own hands in exchange for something more important to him, the fragile feelings that had not yet been firmly established were almost gone because of this undoubted betrayal. He was created as a substitute for "Fulgrim", and he did want to be another more decent, loyal, perfect, and benchmark "Fulgrim". But - does this mean that he is still serving Fabius Bile? Is his seemingly natural will still permeated with the instructions of his creator?

How should he answer this question? If he intends to claim to be "loyal to the Empire", then does his identity as a Fallen's incubator become an ignominious stain? Does the act of moving forward on the path drawn for him by the betrayer make his claim of loyalty a stupid and ridiculous lie?

And everything will eventually be centered on the most important question: Who am I?

I am a clone of the Emperor's Children Primarch Fulgrim. He thought so. He was born from a jar, and was bred to become another better, more perfect Fulgrim. He wanted to claim so, to tell Dorn that he was the third Primarch in the Emperor's grand biochemical engineering plan, the purple phoenix rising from Chemos. He was sure that he had more right to make such a claim than the Primarch who had fallen to Slaanesh's plaything, but every time he wanted to say so, Akurdona's voice would emerge from his memory in time to stop him:
"The real Fulgrim never had to prove that he was called by that name! Didn't you realize that from the moment you said that, you already realized that you are not 'Fulgrim' at all!"

But if I am not "Fulgrim", who am I? the clone thought bitterly.

Akuldona's voice seemed to still be coming from far away, but he had no intention of distinguishing the specific words he said. Dorn's attacks were like a gust of wind and thunder, and there was no end to them. He had to focus on dealing with these moves to barely ensure that he could survive these attacks.

How long have they been fighting? After the sixth hour, the clones had given up counting. Even though they lacked necessary energy supplements such as food and water, the Primarch's endurance beyond ordinary people's imagination still supported them to carry out long-term high-intensity physical exercise in such a harsh environment. If ordinary people were to engage in such an intense hand-to-hand fight under the same conditions, they might not even last three hours and would die of dehydration. However, the battle between Rogal Dorn and Fulgrim's clones continued for a period of time that could have lasted for days, months, or even years, and it seemed that it would continue until the galaxy collapsed and the universe was annihilated.

Was it because the waves of the warp had disrupted their sense of time, or because they had really spent so much time in the fight? The clone didn't know, and Dorn didn't say anything about it. In fact, most of the time, this loyal Terran guard refused to communicate with the "betrayer Fulgrim" in his eyes, and turned a blind eye and deaf ear to all the signals sent by the clone representing "request to talk". Without communication, there would be no consensus. The two opponents, who were not in good condition and could not do anything to each other, could not get out of this vicious circle.

They could have continued to fight like this. The Primarch's excellent combat awareness and recovery ability meant that the punches and kicks in hand-to-hand combat could not really cause fatal injuries to the opponent, but the final result was still predictable - no wonder there were three options: either Dorn was dragged down by the heavy weight of his power armor, or the clone was first destroyed by some means because of the luxurious tatters on his body that had no protection, or the two of them were exhausted in the long-term forced battle and fell down after their physiological functions were close to the limit.

The Primarch's physical strength and endurance are indeed bottomless, but not infinite. Especially in this situation where he cannot rest or get energy replenishment. Therefore, the probability of the above three possibilities coming true is not completely equal. Although Dorn is engulfed in emotional rage at the moment, this rage does not affect his strategy and judgment. The clone gradually realized that his opponent was consciously allocating and controlling his physical consumption. They were not very good at this kind of tug-of-war, but the current situation was obviously planned and guided by Dorn, which was more favorable to him.

Among the three endings, the one with the least probability is that Dorne himself is defeated.

The ancient Terran military strategy says: The best strategy is to attack the enemy's plans, the next best is to attack their alliances, the next best is to attack their troops, and the worst is to attack their cities. The clone knew this motto from memories that did not belong to him, and could easily realize that his current situation was basically the same as "attacking a city" - and his opponent in "attacking a city" was Rogal Dorn.

The clone realized that he might not win, but then he forced himself to throw this thought out of his mind, because in front of "Fulgrim", there should be no "unwinnable" situation. He should flexibly change his thinking and try to find an idea that can avoid his current disadvantages and help him turn the game around and win smoothly - "Fulgrim" will definitely be able to do it. The Primarch of the Third Legion once expanded the Empire's territory without bloodshed with a gorgeous battle loss ratio and exaggerated strategic means. If he wants to make himself worthy of this name, then he must also show similar results.

If he couldn't even handle a stubborn Rogal Dorn, then wasn't he even less qualified to call himself that?
——Dorn's fist landed on his jaw again, and the violent shock traveled along his bones to his mind, dispelling the faint shouts of Akuldona in his memory. Even with the tenacity of the Primarch, such an impact was enough to make him dazed for a moment. The nerve signal disorder caused by this injury made the clone's brain unable to perfectly command his limbs. He wanted to respond to Dorn's next attack, but he was still a step too late:
In the moment he lost his defense, he was knocked to the ground by the opponent for the umpteenth time. This was a very dangerous signal - once Dorn pressed down on him with the weight of his own body and the heavy power armor, the clone without auxiliary equipment would have almost no chance of turning the tables again. In close combat, physique and weight have such a great suppressive power. This is a basic knowledge that everyone who has practiced similar fighting must have experienced.

The clone instinctively wanted to roll in another direction to avoid it, just like he did countless times before when he was almost in the same predicament. But this time, he failed to move immediately and missed this split-second opportunity - a stone was stuck in the direction he first chose, causing him to fail to successfully roll over enough distance with his carefully planned strength.

He should have noticed the stone before he fell, and should have taken it into account in his tactical considerations. A Primarch-level brain should not have such a big mistake in battlefield cognition, but he just "missed it". The clone had no time to regret his mistake, because Rogal Dorn's mountain-like body had already pressed down on him as he looked up. At that moment, he instinctively grabbed the stone -

Was it this small before? Was it a size that I could hold in my hand and it was so comfortable?

This doubt flashed through the clone's mind, and the lingering voice of the deceased sounded in his mind again:

Kill him. Use that stone. The voice said. You can see clearly that if you don't do this right now, you will be the one who dies.

In the moment of life and death, the Primarch's already fast thinking speed can stretch this moment to a very long time. Under the influence of adrenaline, the clone can clearly see Dorn's gray hair and beard, every wrinkle on his withered face, and the pure anger written with countless tears and hatred. He knows that what the dead said to him is right: Dorn still wants to kill him now. He has a chance now, so there is no doubt that he will do it.

But this is not a "perfect" ending, the clone said to himself. Would the real Fulgrim do this? Would he commit such a traitorous act of fratricide?

Why wouldn't he? The dead voice sneered. He did, didn't he? You know it.

But that's what the Fallen do! The clone retorted in anger.

But you are dying now. The dead person emphasized this with dramatic elegance. If you die, then everything you hoped for based on your survival will be empty talk. Your life will be concluded at this moment, and you will be an imperfect failure, a stain, like so many other inferior works of Fabius in the past, collapsed into an experimental record that is not even worth noting. Do you want these things to be true?

No. The clone thought. I don't want to - I won't become a useless string of data.

Dorn's knee had already pressed against the clone's chest, and the heavy mass pressed down relentlessly. The fragile purple-gold carapace shattered and pierced into the clone's flesh, but the wailing on the rib plates made the pain caused by these "minor" skin injuries not even worth mentioning. A giant hand covered in dusty golden armor strangled the throat of the fallen man. In another moment, his cervical vertebrae would be broken. Even if the original's extraordinary vitality prevented him from dying immediately after his central nervous system was severed, the inability to move his limbs would put his life into an obvious countdown. In the clone's shallow experience, this was the only time he was so close to death.

If you don't want to die, just do it.

The vicious whispers of the deceased seemed to ring in the clone's ears, and at the same time, Akurdona's call, which had not been clearly captured by the clone, seemed to have finally passed through the storm on the sea and successfully reached his mind.

At this moment, just like a strong wind blowing away the dark clouds that had been covering the sky for a long time, the clone, who had made up his mind, clenched the hard object in his hand in a moment of sudden enlightenment. The world forced upon him in the incubator was still confusing, but the clone had never felt so determined before:
He knew what he should do next.

He raised his hand—
-
Fabius Bile felt disappointed in one moment, and relieved in the next. At this moment, he was on the most heavily guarded central bridge of the Iron Fist. He spent a lot of things - tangible warriors and weapons, intangible favors and debts - to finally successfully reach the most central command post in the most central flagship of the Nachmond Corridor Battle.

In order to reach here, he had become alone under the siege of the Iron Hands Chapter, but it didn't matter. The Black Legion had retreated, and Abaddon had once again "strategically shifted" and tried to return to the Eye of Terror. He didn't have any reinforcements left to call for - but anyway, when he came here, he didn't think he could go back alive.

Fabius spent so much energy to complete this seemingly meaningless task, essentially just to confirm a rumor. It is reasonable that he realized that this rumor was just as all the officers in the Black Legion, and even the "Great Plunderer" Ezekiel Abaddon, had "refuted" it: the Primarch of the Iron Hands was not truly "resurrected", and those pedantic and ridiculous mechanical heads just gradually went crazy on another path, step by step touching the red line of the Empire's "Crimson Protocol", and called the hateful intelligence they pieced together the "resurrected Primarch".

As a scientist, Fabius admitted that the mechanical creation placed in the center of the bridge was sophisticated enough. Even though it was made up of a complex structure of bearings, cables, levers, and steel, it had successfully reproduced a small part of the majesty that Ferrus Manus had ten thousand years ago - even if it was only one tenth. Replicating the original body by some means was also a subject he had focused on at some stage, so he could understand how difficult it was. Even though the technological routes between machinery and genes were far apart, it did not prevent the natural generation of such understanding and empathy.

But machines are only machines, just as his clones are only clones. Fabius did not give up, but he did often question whether he could ever perfectly replicate what the Emperor had done. Just as he had felt when he had failed so many times in his quest to replicate the Primarch, the Blasphemer knew immediately and for sure that this was not Ferrus Manus.

The Iron Hands Primarch died on Istvaan V. This is an indisputable fact.

The recently reorganized Moloch Guards were guarding the Iron Hand's "primarch". The firepower that a whole Terminator battle group could unleash in a small space like the bridge was irresistible. Fabius was very sure that his body would be annihilated into ashes in the energy spewed out by various weapons in the next few seconds, but a voice prevented this from happening.

"Stop. This doesn't make sense."

Said the voice of Ferrus Manus.

Fabius Bile had heard the voice of the Iron Hands Primarch before. Thanks to the close relationship between the Third and Tenth Legions during the Great Crusade, he had heard the voice of Ferrus Manus many times in the distant past. Deep but clear enough, rough but not rough, like the collision of metal and iron, and the smooth meshing of gears. He couldn't describe the feeling, but when he heard this voice, he was very sure - just as he was sure that the blasphemous creation in front of him that only had a 10% resemblance to "Ferrus Manus" was not a successful work, that was indeed the voice of the Tenth Primarch.

Not a crude imitation of a voiceprint, not a patchwork of past recordings. That was Ferrus Manus speaking.

The Moloch Guards lowered their weapons in silence. This might be a surprising thing, but Fabius really didn't have the attention to allocate to such a small matter. He looked at the mechanical creation that was judged as waste at the beginning in astonishment and confusion, and couldn't understand how all this happened.

"But, my lord. We should kill him." A Moloch Terminator raised such a question, and the steel statue lowered its head with a flexibility beyond ordinary people's imagination and responded:
"Of course I know, but it doesn't make sense." The metal and machinery on the statue's face moved in an unimaginable way, perfectly simulating the expression of Ferrus Manus himself. Fabius realized that after it moved and had an expression, its similarity to the real Iron Hands Primarch suddenly soared.

No wonder those mediocre people who try to stuff motor oil into their heads think this is a successful attempt. Fabius was able to think so even when surrounded by enemies. And the mechanical creature was still talking during this time:

"I know him. Fabius Bile," said Ferrus' voice. "One of the first survivors of the Emperor's Children Legion. Ten thousand years ago I knew his name as the Legion's Chief Apothecary, and in the ten thousand years since, I have heard of his many exploits. I know what he was and what he has become, and I can say that there is no use in killing him here and now. Even if he has caused great damage to our ships, killing him would be far from being a proper revenge. Even if we were to destroy his remains here, we would only destroy a body that can be replaced. The name Fabius Bile will still echo across the galaxy, and will not end one of the nightmares caused by the Imperium's many betrayers."

"Indeed." Fabius was slightly surprised, but still admitted it frankly.

He has backup clones of himself hidden throughout the galaxy, and if one of his bodies is destroyed, his memories and consciousness are transferred to these backups through some Eldar-inspired technology. Another clone will awaken, but he is also Fabius Bile - they share the same memories, the same vision, the same personality, the same thought patterns, the same obsessions, and the same name. Therefore, every clone is Fabius Bile. They are indistinguishable from each other.

"But he should pay for his crimes," said Moloch the Terminator, "even if it is only a tiny bit."

"I'm not saying 'let him go.'" Ferrus' voice echoed calmly in the bridge. "We will kill him, but from the perspective of efficiency, I hope his death can be more 'valuable'. Bring him to my workshop. I have something to discuss with him in person."

Fabius tensed his muscles cautiously. The last sentence made him realize that this mechanically constructed "Ferus Manus" was probably not the so-called abomination intelligence, but someone was hiding behind it and talking. This was a great discovery. He could have simply committed suicide and activated his next backup - this was already worth the price. But when the two Moloch Terminators who had temporarily put away their weapons walked towards him, he did not try to escape or resist.

He really wanted to know what the other party wanted to say to him - no matter who was speaking behind this exquisite mechanical structure.
-
The clone lying on the wilderness dropped the stone he had grasped reflexively and tried hard to pry open Dorn's iron-like hand. Without the latter exerting more force, he soon succeeded.

After removing the shackles from his neck, he was finally able to drag his tattered armor and body out of his opponent's grip and crawl away in a dusty state. These actions obviously had nothing to do with elegance and perfection, but after having just experienced a life-and-death situation, the clone chose to take it easy. Instead of caring about those trivial matters, he might as well take a deep breath of the choking air with floating dust in the desert Gobi, and briefly sing the praises of the beauty of life in his mind.

Almost - just a little bit, his cervical vertebrae would have been crushed. The clone was still in shock. Driven by this emotion, he unconsciously chose to move as far away from the culprit as possible while coughing violently, but in fact, after a series of uncoordinated crawling in panic, he did not succeed in moving far away from the other party.

Dorn stood there blankly - he looked intact, but his expression was frozen in a strange way. He had not yet completely gotten over his anger, but anyone could read the obvious confusion on his face. His rigid personality might be one of his advantages, but relatively speaking, if something unexpected happened in front of Dorn, he would always react two or three microseconds slower than some of his brothers who were more flexible in thinking.

Unfortunately, the events in front of him were too jumpy, like some nonsensical comedy. Dorn's rigid thinking could not understand why his opponent did this, and he could not come up with a countermeasure if he could not guess the opponent's intention. This obviously wrong redundant algorithm made Dorn's thinking loop in place for much longer than two or three microseconds, and then he remembered to ask:
"What did you stuff in me?"

"How should I know?" The clone said unhappily, his voice still a little hoarse due to the previous injury. "On the surface, it is a kind of sugar snack. In theory, it also represents a deeper meaning. Unfortunately, before I can successfully understand its meaning, it has to enter your mouth."

This answer obviously did not answer any of Dorn's questions: "But why do you want to do this? Even if we don't talk about the so-called 'deeper meaning' that you haven't figured out, it can still provide you with a certain degree of heat. Even if it is a drop in the bucket for the Primarch, in a long tug-of-war, the last tiny bit of supply may be the last straw that breaks the camel's back."

"Because it's 'irrational' to do so, and 'irrational' things will always scare you!" The clone answered firmly, "What else do you want me to do in that situation? Do I really want to smash your head with a rock and dig out your brains?"

The anger faded from Dorn's old face, replaced by complete confusion. These confusions that needed to be resolved forced him to calm down temporarily, and the clone finally had the opportunity to state the answers to the three questions he was originally asked:
"I don't know who I am, who I serve, and even less why I am standing here fighting you without any purpose!" He angrily got up from the ground. The dust, blood, and scars on his body made him look like neither a work of art that could be put in a display case, nor a legion commander who was honored and high above everyone else.

"I admit that I am just an alchemical clone created based on the Primarch Fulgrim. Apart from a certain degree of similarity with that person in appearance, knowledge, abilities and memories, there is nothing special about me." The clone who survived the catastrophe finally abandoned his manners completely, hopping around in disgrace. "I admit that I can't do it. I can neither find a way to resolve the conflict with you peacefully, nor can I have the heart to kill you, but -

"*Chmers swear*! I don't fucking want to become a line of words in the data of a failed experiment - listen to me, you stone head, I'm fighting you here just because I want to live!"
-
(The picture and the text are unrelated. Please share the despair of a smoke kitchen (me). I kill the type-moon scanner.)
(End of this chapter)