8. Furyflame (IV)

People bleed, people die. What else is there?

And the ways in which they bleed.

Roaring, Angron lunged forward from the darkness, seizing one of the slave owners' guards. The man remained calm; his silver tentacles instantly straightened, transforming into some kind of flexible blade, and plunged towards Angron's abdomen.

The pain was fleeting, but Angron remained unmoved. He grinned maliciously, ignoring the resistance of his bodyguard, forcefully pinning him down, and then raised his fist to strike the bodyguard's head.

The guard's expression quickly turned to panic, and the tentacles that were harming Angron retracted, transforming into a shield that blocked his head.

But Angron didn't need to do anything more; he had succeeded. It was a little trick, one of countless tricks he had learned from Oenomaus, who, while still alive, had told him that it was essential to distract the enemy.

And now, he has used it.

His left hand slammed into the guard's chest. The metallic touch was fleeting, followed by a crisp sound, then a familiar sticky sensation, and the stench of blood grew even more pungent.

He burst into maniacal laughter, his face contorting—their emotions filled his heart: fear, resentment, contempt; some cursed him in their hearts as a monster, but Angron paid no heed.

He roared as he stood up, the pain in his head casting a crimson veil over everything before him. His guards roared and whipped him, ordering him to get out of his way, but Angron just laughed.

Oenomaus —and all gladiators are like that; they laugh in the face of pain, in the face of their enemies. They may be covered in wounds, they may bleed to death, but they will not bow their heads.

He laughed mockingly, ignoring the piercing pain in his head, and lunged at one of his guards with all his might.

He didn't get his wish. Silvervine rushed out of the Shadow and grabbed his arm. Its sharp surface cut his skin and made him bleed, but he didn't care at all.

Angron lunged forward like a madman; his tentacles could briefly restrain and limit him, but they couldn't truly subdue him.

They never made him submit. They could drug him, threaten him with the lives of gladiators to force him to compete for them again and again, and even drive those damned nails into his head, but they could not make him submit.

He would never kneel before them.

"Get out of here, you mad beast! Do you think you're still a treasure of the House Thal'kr?! The Butcher's Nails will kill you within months, and we don't mind speeding it up! Get out of here!"

Angron didn't answer, only howled, a broken howl. He was in so much pain that even his voice became terrifying.

He wanted to respond; in the intervals between the pain, he wanted to, as before, sneer and curse just how despicable these dogs who served their slave owners were.

He wanted to argue with them, that he was not some "treasure" at all, that he was just a human being like the other gladiators, not their slave. But when the words came out, all he could manage were broken roars and howls.

The nails tore at his sanity, trying to drive him to more violence. In the crimson curtain, everything changed, transforming into a tidal wave of ghosts surging towards him.

The guard's face twisted into a monster, muttering that he would make him pay. The Silvervine that bound him transformed into their rotting hands and feet, upon which the victim's face appeared.

Angron was in so much pain that he could barely breathe, but the sight of those familiar faces made him roar once more.

He remembered every gladiator who had died, even if he didn't know their names.

Roaring, he broke free of the Silvervine, and several guards roared in anger, thinking he was about to attack.

Their voices stretched into a terrifying roar in his ears, but Angron's first reaction was not to attack them, but to plunge his thick fingers deep into the iron-like braid at the back of his head and stir it vigorously.

He wanted to tear them off.

He roared, and the nails, resentful and dissatisfied with his resistance, poured more suffering into him. These things almost turned his blood into boiling magma, while the words of his guards continued to add fuel to the fire.

"He's gone mad! Let's go, we have to kill those invaders!"

"I'm the one who's going to kill you all!"

Angron laughed maniacally, his face contorted into a horrible vortex, blood streaming from his nose and eyes, and the saliva overflowing from his mouth was crimson.

He rushed forward, laughing maniacally, grabbed a man, and ripped his head off with several times the speed he had previously done. The spine was swiftly pulled out of the body, the sensation of bones colliding in his hands so slow and exquisite.

He committed a violent act, killing a man because of the nail's compulsion— Angron's eyes were filled with bloody tears, and he shouted in bewilderment, throwing the head aside and beginning a killing spree.

The guards initially put up some resistance, but they were, after all, a small group separated from a larger group, and Silvervine couldn't hold Angron back for long. Moreover, this was deep inside a cave, not as spacious as the surface, which gave them room to fight.

Just minutes later, Angron killed them all with his own hands. He trembled in agony, the nails never satisfied, not even for a second.

He had just killed these people, his hands still stained with blood, the sensation of smashing skulls or tearing people in two still lingering, yet the nails were not satisfied. They screamed and churned in his mind, relentlessly tormenting him with their spikes, bringing false hallucinations and piercing agony.

In the end, all of this even mixed together, turning into a pain that made him feel like his head was about to split in two.

He knelt on the ground, in the pool of blood he had created with his own hands, his fragmented mind praying that no gladiators would approach him at this moment, but Nail was shouting at him, telling him to kill them all along.

Angron fought back with all his might, using his knees to pull himself to the rock wall and then slamming his forehead against it, each blow harder than the last—he would rather die than let his hands be stained with the blood of any gladiator again, never again.

The blood of Oenomaus was still vivid in his mind's eye. Had he killed him out of pain? Would he kill more? But the nails kept urging him on, still gnawing relentlessly at his skull and brain.

Angron howled unconsciously, his body covered in blood, his wounds bursting open, veins bulging, and his face contorted with rage. He began to pound his head against the wall, desperately struggling against the nail, trying to end it all here—but just then, a voice entered his Chaos heart.

"Calm down, Angron," the voice said gently. "I'm here to help you."

The blood-soaked giant whirled around and saw a pale figure standing in the darkness, gazing silently at him. His ability to think had been completely shattered, yet at that moment he suddenly sensed something discordant.

Angron stared blankly, blood gushing over his face, engulfing it in crimson. He noticed that the man was very tall—and his eyes were gleaming.

Blue light, a light distinct from scarlet. This light was faint, almost insignificant compared to the surrounding scarlet, and looking at it, Angron suddenly felt a chilling calm.

He knelt on the spot, watching the man slowly approach him, and then he realized that the man was actually taller than him. Most people were the same height as him, even when they were sitting down, but this man was different.

This person.

"Who are you?" Angron roared.

He wanted to speak properly, not wanting his voice to sound so much like a threat before violence, but he couldn't.

Although the pain had subsided considerably, the nails were still gnawing at it. As long as they remained, he would inevitably suffer pain. And this howl was merely a side effect of it, even considered minor among them.

"My name is Karyl Lohars," the man said, his voice incredibly gentle, yet containing an emotion that Angron couldn't quite grasp. "I'm here to help you."

"Help me?"

Angron looked back blankly, unable to comprehend how he had been broken.

Completely broken.

Karyl slowly tightened the lines of his face, awaiting Angron's reply.

He knew that the Emperor's sons were scattered throughout the galaxy. And under such circumstances, it was normal for each of them to have their own experiences.

He had already met five of them, and if you include Konrad Curze and Angron in front of him, that makes seven, and each of them had a different background. Take Lorgar Aurelian and Roboute Guilliman, for example.

A poor man who is devoutly religious but not so devout in reality, and a nobleman's son who tries to see the world rationally and has had a good family—their life experiences are completely different, but at least they are both complete.

They weren't broken, not as broken as the man before him. He stared into Angron's eyes, trying to find some clue that could help him in the present moment, but he saw nothing.

Nothing remained but pain. This person seemed to have been hollowed out, leaving only a twisted mind and the powerful body belonging to the Primarch. And beyond that? He was even a person tormented by pain to the point of wanting to commit suicide. Even with the smallest unit of psionic energy to soothe him, he couldn't feel anything other than numbness.

Karyl looked at the things embedded deep in his scalp like steel cables at the back of his head, and his eyes turned somewhat dangerous for a moment.

He was still waiting for an answer, but Angron remained unresponsive. His face shifted between calm and contortion, terrifying and unfathomable. Tears of blood streamed down his face, leaving winding trails before merging into a sea of blood, making him appear as if he were submerged in a river of blood—a truly horrifying sight.

Karyl pursed his lips, preparing to use his psychic powers to touch Angron's mind, intending to find more clues within it.

He had already informed the Second Company Commander about the situation at the arena, and the possibility of a Primarch existing in Nuceria had also been reported to Roboute Guilliman. At this moment, the Lord of Macragge was leading his men on their way here.

He had to first calm the man who was clearly suffering from the implant in his scalp.

He had already seen what Angron looked like when he went berserk.

But just as he touched that Chaos mind with his psychic powers, Angron let out a howl. His eyes turned pure crimson in an instant, and Karyl clearly saw that the implants rooted under his scalp were gradually penetrating deeper.

The next second, Angron lunged at him, his face contorted with rage, but blood streaming from his eyes.

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