Warhammer: Echoes of Divinity Chapter 90: Seems Like You Were Right

Ten Minutes Later

"That's it? I'm a veteran. You lot don't stand a chance."

Inside a half-collapsed, ruined bunker, its rebar-veined walls scorched and sagging under centuries of war, Grot wielded a tal rod, its surface marred with dents and blackened scuffs, a silent testant to countless clashes.

He moved like a prowling beast, each step deliberate, every pivot precise, weaving through six opponents.

With superior skill and experience, he dodged their strikes effortlessly, counterattacking with brutal, surgical precision.

One by one, his opponents fell; so dropping their weapons, others forced to a knee as blows struck their limbs.

Even without wearing power armor, Grot was a true warrior. His sweat-slicked muscles rippled beneath a patchwork of scars, moving with the lethal grace of soone who had survived a hundred battlefields. That much was undeniable.

"Is this the best you Devotees have? You fight worse than the Planetary Defense Force grunts! No matter how fanatical you are, you'd be useless on a real battlefield."

He planted the rod into the ground, its worn tal tip biting into the cracked ferrocrete with a grinding crunch, glaring down at the defeated six, his chest rising and falling with adrenaline, the fire of pride and anticipation burning in his eyes.

From the sidelines, Adam watched in silence.

This wasn't his first ti witnessing Grot in battle.

The forr Thunderborns-in-training had made great strides in controlling his emotions; during ditation, during drills, even during punishnt sessions.

But in battle, all restraint evaporated.

Here, he always lost himself.

It reminded Adam of the Heresy of the Champion of Blood, a tale of warriors who had succumbed to their bloodlust, abandoning reason for slaughter.

Adam still didn't know the exact reason Grot had been expelled from the Thunderborns, but he was certain it was related to this raw, unrelenting enjoynt of combat.

Stepping forward, Adam picked up a discarded tal rod.

"Let try."

Grot's grin widened, feral and wolfish, a gleam of eagerness igniting behind his eyes.

"Finally! I've been wondering if you could actually fight."

He lunged forward, attempting to slam his shoulder into Adam's chest.

Adam did not dodge.

He t Grot's charge head-on.

Despite his stoic deanor, Adam was as strong as Grot, if not stronger, and far faster.

The collision sent Grot staggering backward, boots scraping against the debris-strewn floor, eyes wide with shock at Adam's raw power.

Adam had barely shifted, absorbing the blow without effort.

Before he could recover, Adam grabbed his collar, pulling him back.

Then drove a fist straight into his face.

"CRACK∼!"

Grot hit the ground hard, a sharp grunt escaping his lips as his back slamd into broken stone. He stared up at the dimly flickering ceiling lights, dazed for a mont before shaking off the impact.

Rising swiftly, he charged again, this ti aiming to smash his forehead against Adam's skull.

Adam took the hit.

Now, he was the one on the ground.

He stayed there for a mont, then calmly got up, expression unchanged.

Like nothing had happened.

"You're still calm after that?" Grot stared in disbelief.

Adam was like a machine.

The Devotees of the Angel aid to strip away human weakness, to elevate themselves beyond base impulses.

But even among them, few could maintain this level of detachnt.

"Thank you for your assistance, brothers," Adam said, turning to the six fallen trainees.

They all simply shook their heads, then left, their eyes lowered in quiet respect.

As soon as they were gone, Adam turned back to Grot, his tone low and deliberate.

"You were once a Thunderborn. You should know more about the Champion of Blood Heresy than I do."

Grot's expression darkened.

"I don't just know about it. I lived through it."

His eyes narrowed, the flicker of old pain crossing his features.

"Why bring that up?"

"You're not a fool. You should understand why you were expelled from the Thunderborns," Adam replied.

Grot's brow furrowed.

"You're saying the Lord Commander expelled because he feared I'd end up like my brother; Losing control, descending into a mindless slaughter?"

Adam nodded firmly.

Grot clicked his tongue in irritation.

"Did you think I hadn't figured that out already?"

It was true.

Grot had spent a long ti reflecting on why he had been cast out.

At first, he thought it was because of the vengeance he took in the gladiatorial pits.

But that didn't make sense.

Qin Mo would have supported righteous retribution.

That left only one other explanation: the Champion of Blood Heresy.

After deep introspection, Grot realized the truth:

He and his brother both loved battle.

The only difference was that Grot didn't kill the innocent.

But why should that be a problem?

What was wrong with enjoying combat?

His anger simred beneath the surface, like a furnace barely kept under control.

Adam's voice cut through his thoughts.

"Was your brother truly a mindless butcher? Do you believe his rampage had a deeper cause?"

He leaned in, his gaze unyielding.

As a soldier, Adam knew the story of the Champion of Blood, but he didn't know the man himself.

He needed Grot's perspective.

So, Grot told him everything.

The story began twenty-four years ago, a boy returned ho to find his parents' corpses.

With his younger siblings in tow, he was forced to survive in the Lowerhive, fighting to stay alive.

They scavenged among the refuse heaps where servitors dumped the hive's waste, dodging hive gangers and mutant packs, living off scraps and stolen ration packs.

Until he was forcibly enlisted in a war in the underhive.

His sibling, in his absence, was enslaved, thrown into the pits, and forced to kill for the amusent of others.

Then years later, in those bloodstained arenas, he reunited with his long-lost brother.

As Adam listened, the truth beca clear.

Grot's brother wasn't a monster.

He had been a protector, a father figure to their younger sister, a man who always helped others.

But he also loved battle.

Sotis, he even picked fights deliberately, but only against those who deserved it.

"Sothing must have changed him," Grot muttered, his eyes distant.

There was sothing he wasn't saying.

Adam noticed imdiately.

"What changed him?" he pressed.

Grot hesitated.

He knew the answer.

The Champion of Blood statue. That cursed thing.

But it had already been destroyed.

Did Adam need to know about it?

Grot decided to withhold that information.

Adam continued his cold, analytical breakdown:

"Your brother was turned into a pit slave and conditioned to be a gladiator. A killing spree would have been expected, but the fact that he slaughtered even other pit slaves; his fellow captives, that's the anomaly."

Grot nodded grimly.

"The Lord Commander expelled you for a clear reason," Adam concluded.

"He feared that one day, you might be influenced by the sa unknown force, that your love for combat could be pushed to the extre, leading you to slaughter your own without restraint."

"Obvious enough," Grot muttered.

They both fell silent, deep in thought.

Sothing had caused his brother's change.

But what?

Adam finally spoke.

"Perhaps it's genetic."

Grot looked up sharply.

"What?"

"Your family may have inherited a genetic predisposition for bloodlust. At first, it manifests as a simple enjoynt of combat. But under extre stress or trauma, it escalates into uncontrollable slaughter.

If you had experienced exactly what your brother did, you might have ended up the sa way, killing the weak without hesitation."

Grot almost cursed him out, but stopped.

Instead, he thought about it seriously.

Until now, he had assud the Champion of Blood Statue had been responsible.

But could a re statue have such an effect?

There was only one God, the Emperor upon the Golden Throne.

There was no such thing as a Champion of Blood.

But a genetic flaw?

That was plausible.

Grot took a deep breath.

After a long pause, he exhaled slowly and muttered:

"Damn it... looks like you were right."