Come, Let Us Gladiate

Angron's body tensed almost imperceptibly for a moment.

The instinct for battle, the blood of a gladiator, stirred slightly under Guilliman's blatant provocation.

Of course he wanted to agree!

I want to smash that hateful smile on my face with my fists, my teeth, and by any means necessary!

He poured out all the pain, anger, and regret that had been building up in his heart for thousands of years!

but...

Reason, or rather, the remaining clarity of his mind, told him that it was pointless.

He couldn't beat Guilliman.

Guilliman is now so powerful that he seems to be a walking cosmic law.

To agree to this fight would be nothing but self-humiliation, another inevitable and even more thorough defeat.

He curled up, turning his face back into the shadows, responding with silence.

"Tsk, boring."

Guilliman pursed his lips, seemingly disappointed by Angron's retreat.

But he didn't give up; instead, he flashed an even brighter smile.

"However... since it's a gladiatorial contest, there has to be some 'fairness,' right?"

At least it has to look 'fair'.

He snapped his fingers.

"Boom--!"

A dull thud came from the corner of the cell.

Angron glanced over instinctively and saw his World Eaters Power Armour, stained with the blood of the Baal Tyranids and his own old scabs.

And the enormous Power Axe that had accompanied him in battles for millennia, its blade riddled with nicks, appeared out of thin air.

Moreover, they are completely refreshed!

Every deep battle scratch on the armor has disappeared; the Ceramite and Plasteel components are as clean as new, and the paint is as vibrant as if it just came from the factory.

The blade of the Power Axe gleamed with a cold, icy light, and its energy circuit glowed faintly, as if it had just undergone meticulous maintenance and refurbishment by a top-notch Tech-Priest!

at the same time.

Guilliman's majestic and magnificent blue-gold "Armor of Destiny".

In a soft, dim light, it faded, disintegrated, and disappeared from his body like quicksand, revealing his body beneath, clad only in casual clothes.

Those were not ordinary clothes, but a set of clothes with a very classical style.

The upper body is simple, similar to an Ancient Rome toga (a variant of white linen fabric).

Draped and wrapped in an elegant manner, revealing one side of a strong, muscular shoulder and arm;

The lower body is a short, form-fitting skirt.

A magnificent belt inlaid with sapphires and gold thread cinched her waist;

She was wearing leather sandals.

The overall style is dignified yet vigorous, full of power and beauty. It is a highly representative "Roman style" decoration that has been improved with modern aesthetics.

"How about it?"

Guilliman took a half step back, striking a showy pose, as if inviting Angron to critique his "fashion": "Do you want to wear your own armor and fight me with your own axe?"

Or is it...?

Before he finished speaking, the light and shadow around him shifted again, and another set of clothes appeared out of thin air.

That was a more "professional" outfit—a typical Ancient Rome gladiator style!

It is made of tough leather with a few metal plates.

It prioritizes the protection of vital organs while showcasing the wearer's well-defined and muscular physique to the fullest extent.

It is full of primal power and wild charm.

The ingenious design effectively covers private parts without hindering movement, making it a "battle robe" perfectly suited for close combat.

Angron's breath caught in his throat almost imperceptibly the moment he saw the gladiator outfit.

In his lifeless eyes, something that had been buried for far too long seemed to be suddenly stirred.

That familiar style, that rugged texture, that undisguised worship of physical power...

In an instant, he was pulled back to the distant past, back to the gladiatorial arena of Nuceria.

It pulls us back to that "simple" era, which, though filled with blood, sweat, and pain, was also pure, direct, and where life and death depended on one's own martial prowess...

He hadn't seen or touched this type of clothing for ten thousand years.

The World Eaters's Power Armour is armor of slaughter, the mark of Khorne's blessing, and an extension of rage.

But it wasn't... the "Angron" suit that gladiators were once familiar with.

Guilliman keenly caught the fleeting change in Angron's eyes.

He smiled, a gentle smile of triumph.

"It seems... you've made your choice."

Guilliman waved his hand, and the gladiator outfit floated gently to the ground in front of Angron. "Put it on."

As for the venue...

He turned to the side and pointed outside the cell, to the opening he had torn open.

A sliver of light, growing brighter and warmer, shone faintly from the end of the corridor, and...

A faint, indistinct clamor, rising and falling like ocean waves?

"I have already set up a 'duel arena' for you and for us."

"Right there." Guilliman's voice held a hint of anticipation. "I'm looking forward to... giving you a good 'beating up,' bro."

In the most primitive and direct way.

Having said that, he said no more, turned around without hesitation, and walked out of the cell with light steps toward the increasingly dazzling light at the end of the corridor.

Sunlight, like a tangible thing.

Rushing in from the end of the corridor, the raindrops splashed unrestrainedly over his tall, imposing figure, dressed only in Roman casual clothes, gilding him with a dazzling golden edge.

He walked against the light, his silhouette somewhat blurred in the bright light, yet seemingly blending into the light itself.

Angron stared blankly at Guilliman's retreating figure as he disappeared into the light, then looked down at the gladiator outfit on the ground.

The rough texture of the leather was palpable, carrying the warmth of the sunlight.

"What... exactly do you want to do?"

My brother..."

He muttered to himself, his voice so low that only he could hear it.

Confusion, bewilderment, and a slight, bewildered tremor as if forcibly pulled from the mire of despair.

After hesitating for a moment, Angron reached out his hand, somewhat awkwardly, since he had never worn this kind of non- Power Armour himself in ten thousand years.

But in the end, he changed into the gladiator outfit.

The leather clung to his still incredibly muscular body, while the metal plates pressed coldly against his skin.

A long-lost, almost instinctive sense of familiarity and tranquility actually welled up from the bottom of my heart, temporarily overshadowing those churning dark memories.

He took a step forward, stepping out of the cage that had imprisoned him for so long, and walking towards the dazzling light.

The light is too strong.

Stepping from the eternal darkness of the dungeon into this intense light, as bright as the surface of a star, even the Primarch's Superman vision experienced a brief period of maladjustment and blindness.

Before my eyes was a vast expanse of white, a torrent of light and heat.

However, his hearing was completely conquered first!