Vengeance and Salvation

Night fell.

The night in Nuceria was longer than the normal nights that Karyl was familiar with; at 4:20 a. m., there was still no sign of dawn.

Within the gloomy fortress, cast in darkness, Karyl walked slowly. There was no light around him; the arena had been completely abandoned three hours earlier.

At this moment, both gladiators and slave owners had bid farewell to this place. The burning flames had died down, leaving only the lingering smell of burning flesh. Corpses covered with white sheets lay on the ground awaiting burial; even towards their enemies, the Ultramarines had shown them the most basic respect.

Gazing at them, Karyl sighed silently.

When he's alone, he doesn't hide his emotions like he does on other days. One shouldn't lie to oneself.

He came to the sandpit and squatted down.

A four-meter-tall giant faces many inconveniences in his daily life; even to observe this place closely, he must crouch down. He stretched out his right hand, scooped up a handful of rough sand, felt it slip through his fingers, and calmly shook his head.

The smell of blood still lingered.

He clenched his right hand, letting the few remaining grains of sand linger in his palm. They couldn't harm him, but they caused him a slight, insignificant pain.

The rough sand rubbed against his skin and the lines of his palm. After a brief period of discomfort, Karyl released his hand, letting it face down. But this time, no more sand fell.

Blood was dripping.

Then, flames ignited. The pitch-black flames danced wildly in the darkness, carrying unprecedented anger and hatred from the moment of their birth, urging people or the dead to do what they were supposed to do.

The flame was as heavy as the darkness; it should have been unable to illuminate the darkness, yet it caused the darkness to recede spontaneously after it ignited. This bizarre scene would be incomprehensible to ordinary people, even shattering their sanity, but Karyl knew what he was doing.

He stood up calmly and slowly, staring at the huge sandpit, and exhaled a breath of cold air.

Boom--!

A tremendous roar, imperceptible and inaudible to ordinary people, suddenly erupted in the next moment.

Continuous, one beat after another, a delicate rhythm like a heartbeat surged wildly toward fervor in an imperceptible world. It was like music, but more like a terrifying scream. Deep voices rose quietly in the darkness, echoing the song, softly chanting their names from their past lives.

Karyl slowly opened his arms, closed his eyes, and froze in the darkness like a statue. But the sound grew more and more intense until it became a frenzied symphony that reverberated through the darkness.

A low murmur, followed by rapid screams and shouts, the voice uttering the killer's name in its final moments.

The sounds were continuous, ancient and heavy, and seemed to resonate almost tangibly in the abandoned arena.

Karyl opened his eyes, a flash of cold light disappearing in an instant.

The sandpit began to boil in the black flames, surging endlessly like dark lava. A gale picked up, and a thunderous roar suddenly resounded. The sky over Nuceria began to change, with heavy clouds gathering under the dark night sky. In an instant, lightning flashed and thunder roared, followed by a torrential downpour.

The civilians looked up in terror, bewildered. The gladiators talked amongst themselves in their assigned barracks, comforting each other in their own unique way. The Ultramarines gazed at the sky, the colors of lightning reflected in their goggles.

Karyl laughed; only he laughed.

That ancient anger and hatred returned, coiling around him, black flames enveloping him, making him look terrifying, as if clad in armor. He smiled gently, but his dark eyes reflected the pale faces of the unjustly killed.

They waited silently, standing in the darkness like Ghost.

They came from the Nuceria desert, from the Nuceria snow-capped mountains, from the Nuceria forests, from the Nuceria plains.

They were once people living peaceful lives, but were taken from their homes and families by slave trains, forced into becoming bloodstained slaves, losing their freedom, dignity, and everything else. Each of them had fought as a slave in the arena, using their own lives and the lives of their fellow citizens to entertain everyone in the stands.

Then they died, in the sandpit, becoming dark red on the gravel, one among countless white bones.

Anger.

Hatred.

He yearned for Vengeance.

Lightning flashed across the sky, splitting the clouds in two. In the torrential rain, Karyl announced in a low voice, his voice clearly piercing through the rain and reaching the ears of every soul who had died unjustly.

"Then, let's Vengeance."

"In my name."

Then thunder roared.

--

Miro stared at the sky through his eyepiece and felt an unusual chill.

The pattering rain, together with the low-hanging night sky, created an eerie sense of oppression. Night and rain seemed like a match made in heaven, as if they were meant to appear together naturally.

He shook his head, dismissing those thoughts, and turned to enter the makeshift prefabricated house set up by the logistics staff, where he took off his helmet.

He had a serious face, similar to most Ultramarines, but he wasn't handsome; in fact, he could be described as ugly. Three deep scars running across his face ruined everything, making his appearance something that wouldn't be closely observed.

Fortunately, not many people actually care about this. Those who can see it don't care, and those who care can't see it.

"Company Commander."

His subordinate, his brother, Enshika, stepped forward, a fleeting smile on his face, "How is it?"

"The criminal list must be completed within four hours," Miro said. "We need to finish everything by 8:25 and throw these hateful scum into their proper places."

"Does the Primarch have no further commands?"

"Yes," Miro frowned. "But I don't understand."

Enshika looked at him in surprise. "This isn't like you, Company Commander."

Miro glanced at him and spoke in a stiff tone.

"I also want to understand the Primarch's every word, even the meaning behind his every action and glance. But that's impossible, and as a member of the Ultramarines, my job is simple: I just need to obey his will."

"I knew you'd say that," Enshika laughed. "But what else did the Primarch say?"

Miro was silent for a moment, then shook his head.

"I don't understand what that sentence means."

"Are you keeping me in suspense, Company Commander?"

"No."

"Could you say those words out loud?"

Miro sighed slowly.

"He told us to keep quiet," said the company commander of the 2nd Chapter, Second Company Ultramarines. "But I don't understand why he said that."

Enshika remained silent for a long time, then slowly shook his head, equally unable to understand what their Primarch Roboute Guilliman, was saying. But they were ultimately lucky, because this confusion did not last long.

Soon, they heard a low, whistling sound coming from the rain outside the barracks. It was sharp yet deep, and the moment it sounded, it made their eardrums ache.

Miro abruptly pulled on his helmet, flung open the barracks door, and strode out. His right hand was already on the Boltgun slung across his belt, but a few seconds later, he stood silently in the rain, frozen in place.

"Company Commander?" Enshika was a little slower to react, rushed out of the barracks and asked his motionless superior in a low voice, "What happened?"

The Second Company did not answer, but stood quietly. Enshika was about to speak again when he suddenly heard a loud clap of thunder.

A bone-chilling cold suddenly struck after the sound, breaking through the protection of his armor and seeping into every corner of his body. In a daze, Enshika's consciousness also fell into a state of stillness. He stood there, staring into the darkness in the rain, a group of pale Shadow reflected in his goggles.

He could see them, but he couldn't sense them. The rain continued, pelting the Ultramarines' armor and shattering it.

Then—screams rang out. Continuous, horrific, and heart-wrenching, mixed with pleas for mercy. But the Ghost paid them no heed; they were only Vengeance, nothing more.

Returning from the silence of death, enduring the burning flames of Vengeance and hatred, they will never again allow any words to stand in their way.

The gladiators seized the slave owners, roaring their names as they swung their fists. Tortured to death, the slaves clutched the necks of the nobles, glaring at them with hatred as they exhaled their last breaths.

Vengeance, it occurs throughout Nuceria, from the liberated cities to the slave owners who have fled into the wilderness. It spreads and continues relentlessly, operating steadfastly according to the will of the unjustly killed, as if it were a natural law.

At this very moment, countless bloodshed is taking place, but no one is stopping it, and no one can stop it. When the law and justice fail to quell the anger of the unjustly killed, then Vengeance becomes the last resort.

Karyl gazed calmly at the sky, raindrops falling into his eyes and shattering. The rain in Nuceria was natural, gentle even when he summoned it with forces that shouldn't have been there, unlike the rain on Nostramo.

A gentle night breeze, blowing from the distant snow-capped mountains, reached the edge of his fingers, bringing the gratitude of the unjustly killed. The lightning and thunder and the gale had vanished, only the sound remained, like a death knell.

At 6:01 a. m., the Judgment concluded, but it was still pitch black.

He turned around and saw hundreds of pairs of dark eyes.

All the other souls who had fulfilled their desire for Vengeance had departed, some even without any desire for peace, their fragments scattered in the rain.

But these were different; they endured the scorching heat of the black flames and forced themselves to stand calmly before Karyl Lohars.

They knew who he was, but from the moment of his brief resurrection, they could no longer be certain.

But they are fearless.

Karyl lowered his head and sighed. At that moment, one of the spirits stepped forward. He had an old face, gray hair, and a pale face that was faintly visible in the increasingly sparse rain.

"Thank you," he said solemnly. "Thank you for being willing to awaken us, to calm our anger, and to complete our Vengeance."

"This is something I should have done a long time ago," Karyl said in a low voice.

That's true.

He smiled bitterly to himself—he should have walked here as a god, and the moment he arrived, he should have set the entire Nuceria ablaze with flames of Vengeance and hatred. But he didn't, because he still considered himself a human being. If you're human, you should act like a human being and observe the world with your own eyes.

Even though he already knew that his true nature was the same, he was even willing to make an alliance with the Emperor to blur the lines.

In this respect, he is shirking some kind of responsibility.

"There's no right or wrong," said the aged gladiator. "You owe us nothing, and before you, no one has ever wanted to seek justice for us."

"You yourselves have avenged yourselves and brought Vengeance; I am merely standing here."

The old gladiator shook his head, clearly disagreeing with Karyl's words.

His pale face began to grow increasingly ethereal, the flames slowly fading. The other spirits were the same; their desire for Vengeance had been fulfilled, and the black flames no longer provided the power for them to remain.

However, besides Vengeance, they had one more thing to do.

To be precise, they have one more wish to fulfill.

"My lord," the old gladiator spoke in a low voice, "My name is Oenomaus, and I come from the desert."

Karyl did not answer, but simply stared at him, or more precisely, at him and the hundreds of spirits behind him.

My name is Akar, and I come from the forest.

"My name is Milkan, and I come from the snow-capped mountains."

"My name is Yanio. I was born in the arena; I am the child of a gladiator."

My name is...

The sounds rang out, one after another, one after another. No one interrupted, no one paused; they knew their names, they knew where they came from, just as they knew what they were going to do.

The old gladiator—or rather, Oenomaus— speaked again after a long silence.

"I am Angron's father," he said.

"And me," another spirit spoke. "I was his brother."

"Me too."

"I am his older sister. I died when he was eight years old."

The voices of the spirits rang out again; they all knew Angron, they all died here. In life, they were close to him, and even in death, they still cared for him.

Karyl remained silent.

Then, the old gladiator, Oenomaus, the Primarch, spoke slowly.

"My lord, we are his family. He has saved us countless times. In gladiatorial combats, in the punishments of slave owners, he took away our bitter tears and fed us with his own blood. He had the chance to escape and become a free man, but he chose to stay in the arena, simply because he didn't want to see us die."

"His kindness turned him into a monster, sir. The slave owners forced me to watch the entire surgery; I saw with my own eyes how they implanted nail after nail into my son's skull. They used that thing to torture many people, but Angron was tortured the most severely. Even in my death, I can still see it."

"We've been lingering in this sandpit all this time. I watched it crumble before my eyes, we all have, sir."

The pale face of Oenomaus began to slowly dissipate, turning into specks of light. The pitch-black night finally began to change, and a hazy light spread across the land, awakening all living beings and everything else.

Oenomaus —and the spirits—speak in unison the very first moment the sunlight pierced the clouds.

--

Angron was breathing heavily.

He sat silently in the far corner of the medical room, his back pressed against the wall. His muscles trembled, and the nail continued to be driven deeper and deeper. The most unbearable part of this process was not the pain itself, but the extension of the process.

Angron's perception was exceptional, so he could clearly sense every drill of the nails. They made his skull throb, his brain tremble, and his nerves ache with terrible pain.

He gritted his teeth, letting out a low moan, blood seeping from his lips and nostrils, dripping down his white clothes. Names and faces flashed before his eyes; he tried to remember them, attempting to recall each dead person with his remaining sanity.

He had to do this; the nail wanted him to forget everything and become a monster who only knew how to kill, but this was his way of rebelling.

He will never yield.

He fell silent, then breathed, silently reciting the names of the dead between his bloodied lips in a broken voice. He had done this every night before.

The nail's fury spread, and Angron smiled coldly, savoring the anger with satisfaction, letting the pain continue, and then began to recite the next person's name.

Akar, Milkan, Yanio. Men, women, old people, children. From the desert or the hills, from the snow-capped mountains or the volcanoes, from the riverbanks, from the plains. They are his brothers, his sisters, his relatives.

Then came the last person.

Oenomaus.

His father.

The giant, covered in wounds, slowly raised his head. His steel braid swayed gently with his movement, the cables trembled, and the terrifying drilling continued. Angron wiped his face, blood staining his palm. He stared at his hands, lost in thought, but his vision suddenly blurred for a moment.

"Angron."

A voice rang out in the darkness.

He looked up abruptly, but there was no one in the darkness.

"Who?"

More of a threatening growl than a greeting came from his trembling throat, and Angron stared into the darkness with wide eyes, almost pleading.

"Who's speaking? Is that you, Oenomaus?"

No one answered, only a second call, a third, a fourth—and so on.

471.

They called out in unison, chanting softly. The giant painfully raised his hand, grabbed the cables behind his head, and began to pull them out frantically. He wanted to cry, but the Butcher's Nails wouldn't allow it. With each movement, the sickening cracking of bones rang out, and he howled in agony, yet he wouldn't stop.

The nail raged, and pain swept over him like a tsunami in the next instant, engulfing him. Angron trembled in a daze and fell to the ground, becoming a man who could barely breathe, but his fingers were still fiddling with the thick cables, never stopping.

"Stop, Angron." In a daze, a familiar voice reached his ears. "We'll fight alongside you in this gladiatorial combat."

Golden light shone in the pitch-black treatment room. A few minutes later, the incessant howling stopped, replaced by broken sobs.

This chapter is 5.2k words. To celebrate the bonus chapter for the Alliance Leader, I'll be posting 7k words today, but I don't know if I can finish writing it all. I can only say that there will be another 5k-word chapter before midnight.

I'd also like to ask for votes.

Furthermore, I really didn't expect that none of you would have guessed it would be resolved this way.