Wrath

The Skinner was still hunting Yochula.

When Yochula tripped over a stone on the Red Sand and fell, looking back in despair at the Skinner pouncing on him, a long spear pierced the Skinner's chest.

Kleist stood behind the Skinner with a fierce expression, the muscles in his thick arms standing out even more as he gripped the long spear.

A Valkyrie.

The word sprang into Yochula's mind.

When he was very young, Yochula had been held in his mother's arms as she told him stories of their people, who had been slaughtered and enslaved by the Desians.

Among them was the story of a warlike woman who had been elevated to godhood as a Valkyrie because of her achievements in battle.

Kleist clearly looked nothing like a Valkyrie. A Valkyrie combined a powerful physique with feminine grace, while Kleist possessed only raw strength.

But that did not stop Yochula from seeing Kleist, who had saved him, as a Valkyrie at that moment.

"Get up."

Kleist pulled the long spear from the corpse. The ferocity on his face gave way to concern as he held out a blood-soaked hand to Yochula.

Yochula took Kleist's hand. Just as he was about to use the support to stand, Kleist effortlessly hauled him upright as though he were a child.

"Angron!" Kleist turned and waved at the primarch.

Maggot Eye had already broadcast the host's announcement that the gladiatorial bout was over, and the audience had been cheering for quite some time.

Yet Angron still stood where he was, utterly motionless.

"We should go back." Kleist walked toward Angron.

The next second, an axe flew over and landed before Kleist.

Kleist jumped in fright. He thought Angron had decided to kill someone who shared his misery.

But when he saw the concern on Angron's face, he no longer thought so.

Angron lowered his head again.

Maggot Eye flew before Angron.

"Mr. Angron Tark, please share your thoughts on the gladiatorial—"

Before the host could finish, Angron suddenly reached out and crushed Maggot Eye in his hand.

When the audience saw this exceptionally gifted gladiator crush Maggot Eye, which was made of the same material as the Iron Men, their cheers abruptly stopped before becoming even more fervent.

Angron raised his head, his face twisted into a savage snarl.

The primarch pulled the harpoon from his shoulder and hurled it toward the distant stands.

The harpoon instantly crossed nearly a thousand meters, flying straight at the audience, but an invisible energy barrier stopped it halfway.

Angron pulled the harpoon from his other shoulder and threw it as well, with exactly the same result.

Rather than becoming afraid or angry, the audience cheered even more wildly for Angron.

An alarm more piercing than the audience's Arena-shaking applause sounded. Ten Security Automata passed through the invisible barrier and entered the combat zone in formation, ready to forcibly subdue Angron.

"He seems to have gone mad..." Kleist took a step back, putting distance between himself and Angron as he instinctively shielded Yochula behind him.

Meanwhile, Qin Xa and Oeno watched Angron's reaction from within the cave, both trying to guess what he was thinking.

"He is beside himself with rage." Oeno was extremely nervous. "He should not resist now. Resisting now will only get him beaten into immobility by the Security Automata..."

Qin Xa nodded, thought for a moment, then shook his head. "It seems he wants to do something."

As he spoke, Angron had already charged toward the Security Automata.

The primarch ran at high speed like a terrifying beast.

Though he was still young, though he had not yet reached the peak of his physical development, he was still a primarch.

The first Security Automaton had just raised its shock baton when Angron tore off both its arms barehanded and smashed its head with a punch, setting off an explosion.

Amid the flickering firelight, metal fragments from the Iron Man embedded themselves in Angron's face. Metal also sliced open his fists, but those injuries only made him stronger.

The rage in the primarch's heart was like the sun that shone upon Nuceria.

The words he screamed within his heart were like fuel, making that rage burn longer and fiercer.

He did not want to kill anyone.

He did not want to be imprisoned in the Arena.

He wanted to run freely through the mountains.

So why was everything forcing him to kill, denying him freedom?

Those pointy-eared bastards who had come to kill him when he crawled from the amniotic pod, the Slave Catchers who had drugged and captured him, the people who had been forced to attack him just to survive, the Gladiators who had fought alongside him before only to turn hostile afterward...

Confusion, pain, helplessness—these negative emotions would ultimately become rage that demanded release. It was so for mortals, and so it was for Angron.

The second Security Automaton had its head pierced by its own arm.

The third Security Automaton was torn to pieces by Angron.

The remaining Security Automata did not last long either before Angron smashed them apart one after another.

But the Security Automata were endless. Ten had been destroyed, and a hundred more emerged.

If those hundred were also torn apart by Angron, though that was impossible, then a thousand were already being mobilized toward the combat zone.

If all the Security Automata failed to stop Angron, though that was completely impossible, Intelligent Machines built specifically for combat would be deployed.

And there was the Praetorian Guard of the High-Riders.

And then... Nuceria had no shortage of things capable of suppressing rebellion.

The slave masters were delighted to watch Angron rage, because this was far more thrilling than the previous gladiatorial bout.

Only when Angron had destroyed more and more Security Automata did his strength gradually begin to drain away, and his rage was no longer as fierce as it had been at first.

The primarch stood atop a mountain of wreckage. Just as he was about to smash the next Intelligent Machine, something else—an intense emotion that had been affecting him all along—suddenly diverted his attention.

That emotion did not come from Angron himself, but from the audience.

Excitement, admiration, approval...

The audience's voices shook the Arena, while their emotions gathered into a flood that washed over Angron.

Angron gradually stopped moving and looked toward the stands.

His arms began to rise.

As though something were pulling them upward.

In the end, the primarch raised both arms like a victor.

The cheering grew more frenzied, and the positive emotions Angron felt grew more intense. He felt as though he were bathing in a warm current.

But when Angron saw the crimson sand of the Arena, reason gradually returned, and the gaze he turned upon the audience filled with hatred.