The Four Base-Heads, a Double Insult

Unlike ordinary Rick Robo-Cats, the Stormlord's body had been custom-made by Hogg, with an emphasis on boosting its combat abilities as a one-man army. Aside from the necessary Adamantium frame, it was filled entirely with Living Metal. It was especially satisfying to beat him up.

Hogg kept his word. He'd promised to give the Stormlord a thorough thrashing, and that's exactly what he did—with extra helpings at no extra charge. He also used the bastard to intimidate his subordinates and strengthen the brotherly bonds between the Primarchs.

Even the Emperor would have struggled against four Primarchs ganging up on him, let alone Imotekh, a defeated underling.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

Hearing the strange thumping sounds coming from the corner, the two Necron turncoats shrank into it, cowering. The lewd laughter that followed made their exhaust ports clench and their screws come loose.

Hogg had plenty of experience taming unruly hard cases with treachery in every bone. Back when the Burning Legion was first founded, he'd personally trained every Greater Daemon worth naming. His approach could be summed up as "converting them through genuine affection."

Grabbing the Stormlord by the head, Hogg snarled:

"Repeat after me: long live the Imperium!"

"Fuck off! Aaaah~" (▼へ▼メ)

Hogg switched off the electric chair and repeated the phrase. Without fail, Imotekh's mouth was as sharp as ever, his attitude every bit that of a defiant hard man who'd rather die than give in.

But tough talk meant nothing to the four big men before him, all black of face and black of heart. Russ was a violent brute who kept his own side in line, while Jonson was an expert at purging his own people. Even the Night Lords under Curze might have been darker than every other Legion combined, if they hadn't so often frequented