Chapter 314: He Is Only A Slave
Violent. Furious.
The behemoth leapt dozens of meters in an instant. It wasn't just fast; his body moved like exploding fire. Sparks flew from his form, igniting the air and turning a dozen Iron Circle automata into walking torches.
In the blink of an eye, Angron was upon Perturabo. The great sword descended, cleaving straight through the towering storm shield.
Perturabo was no weakling. He vanished and reappeared, calculating attack trajectories with machine precision while striking back with Forgebreaker.
Countless daemons and Chaos worshipers watched this duel with rapture. The intensity was such that even the daemons struggled to track the combatants, seeing only the ground shattering like children's blocks beneath them.
Their hearts pounded with excitement, and the gaze of the Blood God made indifference impossible. They drew their weapons, turning their gore-slicked blades on their allies, charging into the fray.
The eternal battlefield welcomed all.
Perturabo seemed to notice this. He frowned, angered by the senseless waste of these inferior spare parts. As Angron closed in again, the Lord of Iron clenched his fist.
BOOM!
An explosion of fire.
The punch was faster than any shell, smashing a stray bolt round that had dared to intervene between them before slamming into Angron's chest.
CLANG—THUD!
The impact of fist on solid matter rang out, followed by the heavy sound of a body hitting the ground. But Perturabo felt pressure coming from his left.
CRUNCH!!!
An axe blade bit into the Lord of Iron's shoulder, fusing metal and flesh, carving deep into his chest cavity. Sharpened teeth churned, drawing blood.
But he remained standing. Forgebreaker swung again, faster than before, the collision of their weapons making the air tremble.
Blood stained the scorched earth between them. Angron, trailing burning blood and shattered armour, stumbled but threw a punch at Perturabo.
Perturabo caught Angron, holding him in place. The guns of his Iron Circle aimed at the Red Angel, but they did not fire.
Angron's flesh regenerated even as it was being torn apart.
He wasn't here to kill this beast.
Perturabo's face twitched as living metal flowed to fill the cracks in his shell, healing him.
He didn't want to be entangled with this animal. Their fighting here served no purpose other than to please the Blood God, deplete their own forces, and further delay the execution of Perturabo's plans.
But neither could kill the other.
"You are a slave. You were born a slave, and you have been a slave from beginning to end."
The Lord of Iron forced the words through gritted teeth. His adamantium mask ground against Angron's shattered helm with a sound that set teeth on edge. The two Primarchs wrestled like ancient bulls, the ground beneath them cracking under the pressure.
The Iron Lord's patience was nearly exhausted by this meaningless struggle.
Angron's response was always a roar. Blood mist vibrated with the sound, and faint, satisfied laughter from Khorne echoed in the distance.
When Perturabo suddenly turned his head, his gaze locked onto the figure who had been watching from the sidelines.
Fulgrim.
The Slaaneshi favourite, who had already slain two of his brothers, leaned elegantly against a bronze pillar. He savoured the pain of the lava scorching his skin, a look of sick anticipation on his flawless face.
"Why look at me?"
Stimulated by Perturabo's cold stare, Fulgrim twisted his serpentine waist into a seductive curve and smiled.
"If you are inviting me to join this game, I must decline."
Fulgrim's fingertips lightly caressed his collarbone, recently replaced with gold, his voice sickeningly sweet.
"After all, dancing with a beast and a cold machine goes against my perfection."
The Primarch of the Third Legion looked like he wouldn't mind if the situation escalated further.
"If you wish to delay the war that brings you pleasure..."
Perturabo's rebreather let out a heavy hiss. He suppressed the urge to order the Iron Blood to lance Fulgrim from orbit.
He couldn't give him that satisfaction.
"Our conflict has lasted long enough. It is grinding down everyone's patience."
He tried to reason with him. After all, in the Iron Lord's brief observation, this brother—who should technically be the most fallen—was surprisingly lucid most of the time.
"ROAAAAR!!!"
Perturabo expressionlessly wiped the crimson spittle from his visor.
At least compared to Angron.
"No, no."
Fulgrim parted his lips.
"Out of guilt for my past actions, I do want to help you. But the Prince of Pleasure thinks otherwise."
He suddenly pointed elegantly at the sky.
There, a pink and purple warp vortex writhed like a hungry throat.
He was waiting. Waiting for a scene that would bring Him pleasure. Until then, He wouldn't let any actor leave the stage, nor allow them to act out of character.
"How can I disobey my Master's command?"
His finger turned back to tap his own heart, a gesture that made Perturabo sick.
"After all, I am just a doll to be played with, existing only to bring my Master joy and achieve His ends."
At this, Fulgrim couldn't help but embrace the burning bronze pillar, responding to the sensory overload with inner delight.
A doll?
His bones trembling, Perturabo was using all his strength.
But it was a meaningless stalemate.
Perturabo thought about and parsed Fulgrim's words.
They were just dolls, obeying the orders of Evil Gods, mere extensions of their will. Don't be blinded by their power. Don't think they are free just because they act wantonly.
Perturabo remembered scolding Abaddon during the Siege of Terra.
"The volume of data can blind an opponent. Its content, the burden of detail... especially if the opponent processes it without sleep... the blinding effect is even better."
"He told me he has learned to 'walk away'."
"Even at the climax of conflict... to walk away."
"Do you believe that? It lets him clear his mind, focus, cast aside the irrelevant and superficial, to contemplate, to simplify... and when he's done, he comes back. Do you know what he does then?"
"I do not know, my lord."
"He wins, Abaddon. That bastard wins."
Memories of the past surfaced on the Iron Lord's face. The lesson Dorn had taught him suggested he should simply withdraw from this conflict.
This suggestion made Perturabo's mechanical heart skip a beat, a flicker of uncharacteristic hesitation in his eyes.
He didn't execute the optimal solution immediately.
"I can play this game with you to the end!"
Perturabo suddenly roared, his voice tinged with the unease of denying his past logic.
He pressed his forehead against Angron's, his eyes inches from the other's bloodshot orbs.
"I can play this deathmatch with you. We can fight here until the last drop of blood is spilled. Then I banish you, and you resurrect on the Blood God's wastes. Or you banish me, and I return to the Iron Blood."
"But if you think I am still trustworthy, that my authority as commander of three Legions still holds, then obey my command! Accept me as your master, and I will give you the reward you desire!"
Angron ignored him.
Perturabo suddenly released his grip.
In a life-or-death struggle, this was tantamount to suicide. Yet he felt no sense of impending doom.
The roar of the chainaxe stopped abruptly.
The blood-stained teeth hovered before the Iron Lord's forehead. The revving blade created a wind that cut tiny fissures into his skin, but it could not advance another inch.
Perturabo stared at the deadly weapon inches away. An emotion born of making the correct choice stimulated his mind, enough to disturb his spirit.
"ROAAAAAR—!!!"
Angron's roar of frustration pulled him back to reality.
Perturabo suddenly laughed. The sound was like rusted gears suddenly turning smoothly. He laughed aloud, Forgebreaker slipping from his fingers to smash heavily into the lava ground.
He truly understood.
The Iron Lord disengaged from the war. He looked down with contempt at the mad dog before him.
A thick barrier now stood between them.
Lhorke, a Khorne Berzerker.
He and his brothers walked through the Ramilies-class Starfort prepared for the World Eaters. His gaze swept over the crowds gathered on the towering platforms.
He had heard of an unprecedented war and had prepared for it. But the chaos and noise here still surprised him.
The air drifting down from the platforms carried a hazy rust-red hue.
Roars echoed, mixed with the smell of promethium and blood, gradually evoking the scent of tremors transmitted back by the Butcher's Nails, spreading from top to bottom.
This came from the World Eaters above.
Lhorke was certain that he saw more World Eaters today than he had thought existed in the entire galaxy.
There were ten thousand on this starfort near the Blood Wastes alone. Who knew how many more were elsewhere, or on the flagship Conqueror?
His thought was cut short. Past experience made him instinctively duck his head, executing a tactical maneuver.
At the same moment, a bolt round roared from somewhere in the fighting pits.
Then came echoing shots, axes cleaving flesh, bolters shattering bone.
Countless World Eaters crowded here. Most were as disorganized as their mismatched armour; a few were even worse.
They killed everything living in sight, intensifying their conflicts until they were killed by a greater power.
Most of the Space Marines on the platform were traitors, pirates, cultists of the Dark Gods. They followed their instincts, slaughtering each other, drowning in it under the drive of the Butcher's Nails, until they themselves weren't sure who they were or what was happening around them.
Chaos.
Meaningless slaughter.
No discipline. Nothing resembling a soldier.
As he led his squad to the other end of the platform, toward the ramp leading higher, a Space Marine crushed by the crowd fell onto him, his weapon burning.
Lhorke knew this was a blessing from the gods. His Butcher's Nails trembled with the bloodlust transmitted from the other, urging him to kill.
Lhorke ignored the scum.
He led his squad across the platform toward the area quarantined by the Lord of Iron.
He looked back. Only three remained of his squad.
This was a filter, selecting which World Eaters could still inherit the Legion's glory.
Lhorke understood the meaning of this platform.
And so he found what he yearned to find deep in his heart.
Of course they would be here. This was the most comprehensive gathering of the Shattered Legions in ten thousand years.
So of course they were here.
True World Eaters.
They stood out like bloodied brass knuckles on a clenched fist. Even amidst the confusion of liveries and markings, they were instantly recognizable. They gathered in company strength, or stood in larger groups around roaring gunships, clad in massive plate.
Hooded Tech-priests scurried around them, tending to rumbling war machines, while blood-stained banners fluttered in the heat from engine fans.
They were filled with bloodlust.
But they could restrain it.
They still possessed discipline.
"Out of my way," Lhorke roared, striding forward and shoving aside a guard who tried to block him.
A World Eater captain immediately raised his heavy bolter like an enforcer. Lhorke stared him down, eyes wide.
When the expected attack didn't come, the captain smiled. He nodded to every World Eater who roared at him, planning future tactics and strategies, thinking about how to give these warriors a sufficiently glorious death.
Lhorke scanned the scarred faces before him—mad, yet retaining a shred of clarity.
Now, they were here.
All the surviving World Eaters in the galaxy were here, or at least most of them. Around him.
They looked so free.
Here, he would get all the answers he craved.
"Where is Angron?" Lhorke roared at the captain. "Where is he?"
He needed an order, then he would seek his glorious death.
"He is there—" The captain pointed a finger toward the wastes outside.
"He slaughtered every living thing on the wasteland, leaving only skulls and blood. Now he is dueling Lord Perturabo."
"Then why are we staying here? Why aren't we going?" Lhorke roared.
"What else is there to do?"
"Wait. Then leave."
The captain spat on the deck. His attitude toward Angron was one of pure contempt.
"You will no longer obey Angron. You will swear a blood oath to the Oath-Breaker."
"Who is the Oath-Breaker?" Lhorke asked, confused.
"Khârn."
Lhorke frowned instinctively. He didn't remember anyone by that name in the Legion.
"The master of this starfort," the captain said.
"I saw him once on Armageddon. But he is completely different from when Lord Perturabo called us to meet. Since obtaining the Conqueror, he has become very powerful. He commands the mightiest warriors and receives the highest favor of the Gods."
"Submit to him. Perhaps he will lead us to ascension. Lead us to break the curse that has always plagued our minds."
"He can do that?" Lhorke asked in astonishment.
"At least he is willing to try," the World Eater captain replied. He walked back to his seat, cradling the heavy bolter, and sat down again.
"And the Primarch will not."
"Truly unprecedented..."
Fulgrim's voice flowed like poisoned honey. His face, beautiful to the point of uncanniness, showed a sick pleasure. His purple-gold eyes admired the absurd scene before him, savouring the extreme emotions within.
"Look, how heartbreaking—"
"A farce, ridiculous and meaningless."
He spread his four arms wide, laughing in enjoyment, the massive wings behind him pulled tight as if in climax.
This was what he wanted to see.
An unprecedented clown was contributing his value at this moment.
He was nothing. And yet another brother tried to make a slave who already belonged to someone else make a choice?
Was he worthy?
Angron stood in a pool of blood. The Iron Circle had retreated, but a crueler shackle was binding him.
The Butcher's Nails shrieked inside his cranial cavity.
Steel needles churned his brain tissue like living things. Every nerve ending had been modified into a conductor of pain.
It urged its host to kill, to destroy...
But not this iron giant before him.
"ROAAAAAR!!!"
He roared in grief and indignation.
The Primarch's howl shattered rocks for a hundred meters around, yet it could not break Fulgrim's amused laughter echoing across the wasteland.
"Lorgar really sold you for a good price."
"Ha, ha ha—"
Almost choking on his own breath, Perturabo rubbed his throat after calming down. He suddenly felt like an idiot, a moron.
He had actually been wasting his breath on these brothers who couldn't control their own armies, their own power, or even themselves.
He had actually treated these slaves as his brothers?
He should have treated them with the same attitude he had toward the Four Gods long ago. Because as long as he reached a consensus with the Four, these brothers would only obey his commands.
The Blood God only wanted this conflict to satisfy His bloodlust. Slaanesh only wanted to witness a farce, to experience their emotions for pleasure.
And Perturabo, like a fool, had lowered himself to act out a play with these enslaved brothers, wasting his time.
He should be planning his first wave of attacks now, raining destruction down on Cadia.
In realspace, the Imperial forces led by the Dawnbreakers were already tightly united, intensely preparing their defensive lines.
And he had done nothing but get dragged into a fight by Angron, providing emotional value to a few Chaos Powers.
Perturabo felt his blood pressure spike, instantly reminding him of the Siege of Terra.
I should have realized this from the start.
Perturabo picked up his hammer and stood atop the ruins, looking down at his struggling brother.
Angron's blood steamed on his brass armour. Broken bones pierced his skin. Every swing of his axe was like a slave battering against his cage.
Blood sprayed. Bones shattered.
But it was all meaningless.
This mad warrior could never kill him, just as a slave could never smash the stars.
The Lord of Iron turned and walked away, turning his back on the frozen Angron. The Iron Circle parted like the sea, clearing a path for him to the Iron Blood.
Angron howled in misery. He was fighting against the power that hindered him, his body collapsing.
Just now, he had tried to seize the initiative of the war, to go to realspace and let the new monsters created by the Emperor kill him.
Now, the slave was trying to kill himself in the same way.
But he could do nothing. Because the Blood God's attitude was clear.
He was willing to pay for a war, but He would not give up the slave in His hand.
He used Perturabo for amusement, and Angron's hatred as fuel. And Angron could not resist.
He was only a slave.
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