14 Red Sand (II)

As the blade swung down, limbs were severed by its chilling sharpness; skin, muscles, bones—the pain was transmitted through nerves. However, just before they screamed and rushed into the wounded person's brain in a frenzied manner, blood exploded from the cut surface of the wound.

A crimson color gushed from his veins, creating a blooming flower in the air.

Then, screams were heard.

Karyl lowered his head thoughtfully, staring at the person who had fallen in the snow. He casually tossed aside the longsword he had made of ice and snow, which landed on the snow and quickly returned to its original form.

As for the person who is trying to crawl away from him.

He chuckled and shook his head, shifting his gaze away from the man.

The snow-capped mountains of Nuceria are truly beautiful. With this thought, he looked up and observed the mountain peak standing amidst the wind and snow.

It appears and disappears, alluring yet dangerous. This beauty is undoubtedly rare, and only a few brave souls dare to venture so deep Nuceria the snowfields of Nukelia. Even the tribes that inhabit this area merely live on the edge of the snowfields.

According to their legends, monsters exist deep within the snowfields.

Do you?

Karyl had no answer, but he hoped the monster would come out of the depths of the snowfield itself, which would save him some trouble.

He stepped forward and stomped on the back of the man trying to move away from him. He applied a little pressure, a muffled thud that was gone in an instant, followed by another scream.

"Then, the third question," Karyl said calmly, still gazing at the snow-capped mountains, as if talking to himself with contentment. "Where did you learn the psionic magic to control the Butcher's Nails?"

Silence, still only silence. The person being questioned let out a muffled scream, but wouldn't speak, as if his ability to speak had been taken away. Karyl could have done it, but he didn't.

"Ah, what a tough nut to crack."

With a low laugh, Karyl slowly crouched down. He scooped up a handful of snow and gently sprinkled it on the man's wound, intensifying the pain. He remained silent, burying his face deep in the snow, letting the blood and pain permeate the air.

Karyl shook his head regretfully.

Excessive torture is of little use in such interrogations. Pain may make most people submit, but for others, it only intensifies their desire to resist.

"I didn't want to do this at first, but you've all tampered with your brains and memories," Karyl said softly. "This spell is truly astonishing, almost like a trigger-activated bomb."

He laughed, reached out, and grabbed the man's head, a fleeting glint of cold light in his eyes.

"But you have neglected the soul."

Amidst the blizzard and the screams of agony, he spoke in a low voice.

At 9:17 a. m., Karyl concluded his investigation. The results were not satisfactory.

--

"The Emperor?" Angron asked.

He was sitting at a long table with Roboute Guilliman, enjoying a hearty breakfast. Normally, Roboute Guilliman wouldn't be too picky about food on weekdays.

He enjoys eating steaks or sweeter fruits, and he often eats them slowly and carefully, savoring every flavor of the food with his sensory system, which is hundreds of times richer than that of ordinary people.

But this will take a lot of time.

So, in other words, on weekdays, Roboute Guilliman would only eat simple canned food.

Because of this, the chefs responsible for his meals have filed numerous joint complaints with Tarasha Euten, alleging that the Lord of Macragge forced them to neglect their duties.

Thinking of this, Roboute Guilliman couldn't help but smile.

He casually picked up two plates of steaks that had just been served less than three minutes ago and placed them in front of Angron: "These are Grak steaks, brother, have a taste—and yes, the Emperor."

Angron frowned, a flicker of doubt crossing his light blue eyes. "Doesn't he have his own name?"

"Perhaps, but we don't know."

"But you say you're his son, and even you didn't know that?"

"Yes, I didn't know. But you are his son, Angron, there's no mistake about that."

Roboute Guilliman sighed regretfully, then began to persuade his new brother.

"I know you've already made up your mind about who your father is, but we are connected to him by blood. When you see him, you'll understand, just as I see you and you see me."

"When I first saw you, I only thought you were a nobleman," Angron smiled, cracking a joke, the rough tone of a gladiator returning to him. "And a very, very important one."

"But I was wearing armor, and it even had blood on it."

"Do you think the nobles of Nuceria don't kill people?"

Roboute Guilliman fell silent, momentarily at a loss for words. Fortunately, Angron didn't keep him awkward for long; the gladiator burst into laughter. "No need for that, brother, I know you're different from them."

Roboute Guilliman should have been grateful for that statement, but he wasn't.

He looked at Angron and asked softly.

"How do you know I'm different from them? Like you said, I am indeed a very high-ranking nobleman, and I'm proud of that identity. The Imperium's territory is beyond your imagination, Angron. The Emperor is its ruler, and we are his sons, which means we enjoy supreme power within the Imperium as well. From that perspective, you are a nobleman too."

The gladiator slowly narrowed his eyes, staring at Roboute Guilliman without uttering a word for two minutes. His silence was terrifying and heavy, but for some reason, Roboute Guilliman didn't feel that his brother would attack him.

Angron shook his head and slowly stood up. He unbuttoned his white hospital gown, revealing a body covered in scars. He pointed to his waist, where a long, scarlet rope, knotted with scars, ran around his waist.

"This is the Rope of Triumph," he said. "Before the fight, make a cut with a knife. If you win, let it heal on its own. If you lose, sprinkle some dirt into it and turn it black."

Roboute Guilliman stared at the gruesome scar, looked up, and said, "And yours are all red."

"That means I haven't lost a single time," Angron replied sullenly.

"But this is not an honor, brother; it is proof of my lost dignity. I accept this rope because it is a gladiator's tradition. In that kind of environment, you have to do everything you can to maintain your dignity. We have to remember who we are, or we will truly become slaves. You say I am a nobleman, would noblemen do this?"

"I don't know," Roboute Guilliman said.

"You know that," Angron said softly, gazing at him.

The aftereffects of the Butcher's Nails returned at this moment, still replacing parts of his spinal nerves and cerebral cortex. Now, Angron could think, laugh, and debate with his brother, but each time he did so, he was in pain.

His face began to twitch, aching from the thought. The machine itself had lost its vitality, yet it punished its host's disrespect through some kind of cursed inertia.

The gladiator's reaction was a calm snort; he smiled and spoke with a pained yet resolute tone.

"If anything I said earlier offended you, I apologize, brother."

"In my world, 'noble' is an insulting word, representing slave owners and their atrocities. But in your world, I suppose it's a word that represents honor. Please forgive me, Roboute. I'm an ignorant gladiator; half an hour ago, I didn't even know what the word 'surface' meant."

Roboute Guilliman sighed helplessly, trying to cover up the matter—his displeasure—but Angron was clearly unwilling to do so.

He possessed a straightforward and resolute quality. Gladiators, living in an environment where they might die tomorrow, naturally wouldn't use roundabout ways of speaking.

This directness struck Roboute Guilliman deeply.

"I don't know how to answer you, Angron," said the Lord of Macragge.

"Normally, I'm someone who's good at using language to achieve my goals, but you've left me speechless. Well, I was indeed a little annoyed before, but what I said afterward wasn't entirely driven by that annoyance."

Angron raised an eyebrow, sat down, and casually buttoned up his coat. "What do you mean?"

"You're part of the aristocracy," Roboute Guilliman said seriously.

"You are a Primarch, one of the Emperor's sons—meaning you are born with a certain responsibility on your shoulders. For example, I am the Grand Marshal of the Ultramarines and the ruler of Macragge. And you, your legion, are on their way."

"Me? The Legion?"

Angron laughed, seemingly taking Roboute Guilliman's words as a joke, but he kept looking Roboute Guilliman in the eye as he said it.

"Yes, your legion." Roboute Guilliman nodded slowly and seriously, not avoiding Angron's heavy gaze.

"They are your warriors, who will obey your every command. They are also your sons, for your blood flows in their veins. They were preparing for this long before we were separated from the Emperor."

"As I said, Angron, the galaxy is vast, and therefore humanity needs to unite. As Primarch, we will use every means to make this happen; it is one of our responsibilities."

Angron did not answer; his expression gradually turned into a complex one. For a moment, Roboute Guilliman worried that he would get angry—but he did not.

He simply frowned deeply.

"I need to know more about this," the gladiator said calmly, then bit off a whole piece of Grak steak from the plate.

Besides