Can't You See Your Favorite Son Is About to Get Fucked?

Only when he is plunged into extreme grief, or when his consciousness is temporarily clouded by some intense shock, is the madness of Butcher's Nails briefly suppressed.

The last time I felt this was ten thousand years ago, on the World Eaters's homeworld...

He ordered the massacre of the entire Mother, and some of his children rebelled against him.

He was so enraged that he personally slaughtered those loyal children.

At the very last moment, a child clung to his hand, pointed to the wound he had inflicted on his throat, and said in a childish voice:

"Father, the wound on your throat... is from me."

Even at this moment, he was still proving his courage and honor to his father, and he was still risking his life to help his father vent his anger.

In that instant, the madness subsided, and looking at his "sons," scarred and wounded from the gladiatorial combat yet with stubborn eyes, he uttered those words:

"You played very well... Every single one of you played very well."

He raised his hand to touch his throat; it was wet, like water or rain, but not like blood.

And it's still the same now.

That wasn't blood, just warm rain.

It was just that the gentle rain fell on my face.

He looked at Guilliman with unmistakable apology in his eyes, and even... a hint of pity.

"I... really want to say..."

Angron's voice became clearer, though still hoarse, "This... is not... my original intention."

He sighed, a sigh filled with the weariness and helplessness of millennia.

"I'm so sorry, I hurt my nephew."

"They are all valiant warriors. Without the blessing of the four gods, I cannot defeat them. You have excellent sons and brothers."

"But I'm still very sorry, I didn't know things would turn out this way..."

His gaze went past Guilliman's shoulder and looked behind him.

Behind Guilliman, the magnificent golden Psionic Energy phantom, representing the Emperor's will and wrath, still stood.

But at the edge of that golden light, against the deep background, another shadow quietly appeared at some unknown time.

A twisted, phantom-like Emperor, as black as eternal night, clad in armor forged from bones and despair, wielding a longsword flowing with pale, deathly flames— the Dark Emperor.

He stood right behind Guilliman, almost overlapping with the golden phantom, yet clearly distinct.

His face bore a cold, cruel, and twistedly expectant grin, and in his hand lay a Black Sword, a symbol of human despair.

The sword tip had already silently aimed at Guilliman's unsuspecting back.

Angron saw it.

In that brief moment of "peace," his Primarch's keen senses detected this deadly shadow.

"How... pathetic... brother..."

Angron looked at Guilliman, his eyes filled with even deeper sorrow. "You are already... so powerful... You have done better than any of us... You should... lead humanity... to greatness..."

Even as a demon, even with his soul fallen into Chaos, at this moment, Angron felt such a pure and sincere thought arise in his heart.

Why... why... are they... just... unwilling... to let you go?

He murmured, as if asking Guilliman, or perhaps himself, asking that unseen Destiny, "Just like... they... never... let me go..."

A murky drop of liquid, mixed with blood, dust, and some indescribable emotion, struggled to be squeezed from the corner of his eye and rolled down.

It dripped precisely onto the back of Guilliman's hand, which was covered in blue-gold armor, as he gripped Guilliman's neck.

A warm sensation came through.

Yes, that wasn't blood, just warm rain.

Guilliman shuddered, looked down in astonishment at the "tear" on the back of his hand that had quickly turned cold.

cry?

A Daemon Primarch has fought for millennia in the Warp, tormented day and night by the Butcher's Nails, and fed on slaughter and rage... can actually... shed tears?

This absurd and shocking realization, like an icicle, instantly pierced Guilliman's furious mind, bringing a brief moment of blankness and confusion.

"What's wrong with you, bro?"

He asked, his voice trembling. It was hard to imagine that the Son of War's voice would tremble, unlike his steely resolve when issuing military orders.

This was a scene Guilliman had never imagined; at least, farewells shouldn't be this sorrowful.

In that one in a millionth of a moment when one's mind falters—

Pfft!

A faint, almost inaudible, yet incredibly clear and terrifying sound of a sharp blade piercing through flesh and armor.

Guilliman's body stiffened abruptly.

He slowly, somewhat dazedly, lowered his head.

A jet -Black Sword, burning with pale, deathly flames, pierced through the center of the thickest plate of his Power Armour without any obstruction.

The tip of the sword was not stained with blood, only with the faint glow of blue-gold Smart Atoms constantly fading away, and the chill of his own life energy being rapidly absorbed and frozen.

The excruciating pain then struck like a tsunami, engulfing everything.

"How tragic, my beloved son..."

A cold, hoarse voice, echoing with millennia of human despair, sounded close to the back of his neck, like a lover's murmur, or the sigh of Ynnead:

"Son of War... should always be vigilant."

After all... you are my... most perfect creation.

The Dark Emperor's arm wrapped around Guilliman's neck from behind, like an embrace, yet also like a shackle.

With his other hand, he firmly gripped the hilt of the sword "The End of All Things" that had pierced through Guilliman's body.

The blade bears the accumulated pain, numbness, and desperate cries of millions of people over millennia.

Like venomous snakes finding their home, they surged wildly into Guilliman's perfect, powerful, and vibrant body, beginning to corrode, freeze, and deny his existence from its very core.

Guilliman opened his mouth as if to say something, but only a stream of blood with a pale golden sheen gushed out.

The anger in his eyes was quickly replaced by shock, excruciating pain, and a trace of... unbelievable sorrow.

His final gaze passed over the black tip of the sword on his chest and landed on Angron's face, who was inches away.

Angron looked at him, his eyes filled with an extremely complex mix of emotions—apology, sadness, a hint of relief, and... a deep, helpless despair.

"Quick... run away..."

With his last ounce of strength, Angron's lips moved silently, uttering two almost indistinguishable syllables.

Then, the last glimmer of clarity in his eyes was completely overwhelmed by the crimson that surged back, doubly violent due to the excruciating pain and the backlash of the Four Gods' will.

Guilliman's world began to darken and grow colder rapidly.

"I'm giving you a chance to live, son."

"I'm only giving you a chance, because you're my perfect son."

"Now surrender to the despair accumulated by humanity over millennia, and that power will transform you, making you a true Son of War!"

All superfluous emotions will be discarded, and you will become utterly perfect, becoming my spokesperson, the spokesperson for the Dark King!

"Come, I swear to you, you will always be my greatest and most loyal Greater Daemon!"

The Dark Emperor's voice was cold, yet tinged with a hint of fanaticism.

My perfect son, come into my arms soon, let's slaughter the entire universe together!

"A good suggestion."

"But... I refuse!!"

"What are you still standing there for, you cheap old man!"

"Didn't you see your most handsome son is about to be bullied?"