They Were Still Loyal
His gaze swept over the group of soldiers in white and red paint, and his tone turned into a deep, almost legislative solemnity:
"Your genetic offspring... these still pure and loyal ' Blood of the World Eaters '... they will not be executed."
I made that promise.
However, because of your disgrace and depravity as the ' Primarch,' they can no longer exist openly and legitimately within the Imperium hierarchy as ' World Eaters.'
Guilliman presented his solution:
"They will become a subgroup of the Ultramarines."
A special new Chapter, inheriting unique genes and fighting style, burdened with a heavy history, yet dedicated to washing away shame and defending the Imperium.
They will inherit the bravery and traditions of the loyal World Eaters of the past, but their allegiance will be to Ultramar, to the Imperium.
He is the future of humanity, not a corrupt Gene-Father, nor some Chaos Gods.
"Clang!"
A heavy, two-handed battle axe, devoid of any energy field hum, and forged purely from an unknown black metal, was tossed onto the sand at Angron's feet.
The axe blade is thick and the handle is wrapped in non-slip leather. Its style is simple yet fierce, carrying a pure and primal aesthetic of slaughter.
Almost instinctively, Angron bent down and grasped the cold axe handle.
The familiar weight and the familiar feel instantly awakened the memories of countless swings deep within his muscles.
There was no stinging Whisper of the Butcher's Nails, no blood-red glow of Khorne's Blessing; only the coldness and purity of the weapon itself.
At the same time, Guilliman raised his hand, and a simple, elegant Roman-style short sword, shimmering with a faint blue light, appeared in his hand.
He casually twirled his sword, the tip pointing at Angron.
There's always been a group of guys who like to study random, unrelated things.
Guilliman said with a smile, but his eyes were as sharp as an eagle's, "They say that the two of us actually symbolize the 'Roman' culture of a certain period of human civilization."
Some say I symbolize the rigid, ruthless, efficient, and territorially expanding 'Roman Senate and Emperor,' the lofty 'slave owners';
And you, you symbolize the 'Roman gladiator and rebels' who defied the odds, pursued freedom, and proved themselves with blood and courage in the arena—the oppressed heroes."
He tilted his head slightly, his smile carrying a hint of provocation and anticipation:
"Don't you hate 'slave owners' the most, brother?"
"Don't you despise those arrogant people who can manipulate other people's Destiny at will?"
Guilliman held his short sword upright before him, performing an ancient dueling salute, his voice carrying clearly across the suddenly silent arena:
"So now... the opportunity has arrived."
"Let's fight back, Angron."
"With your axe, your anger, your pain, everything..."
"Let's rebel against this self-proclaimed 'Roman tyrant'!"
"Let me see..."
"Do you even deserve to be that legendary... Roman hero?!"
The sun was blazing, and the battlefield was scorching hot.
Under the watchful eyes of 100,000, blue and red, sword and axe, tyrant and gladiator, two true inheritors of Roman culture!
The air seemed to freeze completely at that moment.
The only sounds were the soft rustling of the wind stirring up fine dust, and the uncontrollable glint in the eyes of the two thousand white-and-red painted warriors, a mixture of tension, excitement, and a certain tragic grandeur.
"Come on, brother! What are you waiting for?!"
Guilliman's voice boomed like thunder, echoing across the magnificent arena and instantly drowning out all the noise.
He held his sword in one hand, the tip pointing diagonally at the ground, while his other hand reached out to Angron, who was huddled in the dust and ruins, making a provocative and urging "challenge" gesture.
Sunlight shone on his body, which was dressed only in gladiator attire, making his muscles appear as clearly defined as a classical sculpture.
Every inch of it contains explosive power and absolute confidence.
There's an audience!
He waved his arm, pointing to the boundless, surging blue ocean all around.
"It's fair!"
He glanced at the ancient battle axe beside Angron, then looked at the equally "ordinary" short sword in his hand.
"You have weapons! And you have an opponent worth fighting for!"
His gaze was piercing, fixed intently on Angron.
"What are you waiting for, brother?!"
His voice suddenly rose, taking on a sharp, pointed accusation.
"Standing before you is the slave owner! The greatest slave owner in the entire Milky Way!"
Enslaving Five Hundred Worlds, enslaving Terra, enslaving the entire crumbling yet still vast Imperium!
Enslaving your 'offspring' who have just seen the light of day and yearn for recognition! Enslaving all the 'order' and 'shackles' you hate!
Guilliman took a step forward, and the dust rose slightly at his feet.
His expression became incredibly serious, even carrying an almost "sacred" anger, as if he were playing the role of some ultimate villain who must be overthrown.
"Don't you harbor hatred?! You hate the Emperor, you hate Destiny, you hate this twisted universe, you hate yourself! Come on—!"
He suddenly roared, and the sound seemed to cause the air to vibrate, making the eardrums of the audience in the nearest rows ring!
Kill me!
Before he could finish speaking, Guilliman vanished from his spot!
It wasn't Warp flash, nor was it Psionic Energy acceleration; it was a straight-line surge of pure physical power that surpassed the limits of visual perception!
Only a ring of spreading dust and a slightly sunken sand pit remained in place.
In the next instant, he appeared in front of Angron had not yet fully stood up!
The seemingly ordinary short sword in his hand was thrust out straight out with the simplest, fastest, and most characteristic stabbing technique of the Roman legionary infantry!
There are no fancy sword flourishes, no complicated moves, only power and speed concentrated at a single point and compressed to the extreme!
This sword strike was as fast as lightning and as heavy as a mountain!
Angron only had time to barely hold his battle axe horizontally in front of his chest to block.
"Clang--!!!!!"
A deafening roar, far exceeding the expected deafening sound of metal colliding, suddenly erupted!
The tip of the short sword pierced precisely into the center of the axe handle. The moment of contact, a terrifying impact, like an energy core being detonated, surged wildly into the axe handle!
"Puff--!"
Angron was struck as if by lightning; his massive body was completely out of control, and he was sent flying backward as if he had been hit head-on by the main cannon of a starship!
He flew in a clumsy arc and crashed heavily onto the "ruins of the city wall" made of sand and gravel, dozens of meters away.
With a deafening roar, a cloud of dust billowed up, shattering the "ruins" into even greater fragments!