The Anvil-IV

On Anvil -IV, a relatively prosperous industrial planet in the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar.

Below the Planetary Governor's enormous, luxurious palace, which seemed to be embedded in the mountainside, stood a circular arena modeled after the style of Old Terra.

At this moment, in the highest and most comfortable seats reserved for the nobility, a "performance" even more disgusting than the one taking place below the stage is unfolding.

The eldest son of the Planetary Governor, a young nobleman dressed in fine clothes, with a pale face and eyes that were a mixture of boredom and cruelty.

He was lounging lazily in a chair covered with precious animal hides, his fingers tapping absently on the armrest.

His gaze fell listlessly on the center of the rough gravel field below.

There, two men, dressed only in tattered work clothes and covered in oil and metal shavings, faced each other, panting heavily.

Their faces were covered in fresh bruises and bloodstains, and their eyes were filled with pain, struggle, and a deep sense of helplessness.

They were coworkers in the same workshop, looking out for each other, sharing the cheap liquor they bought with their meager wages, and complaining about the harshness of the supervisor.

They harbor a faint hope that may never come true: to send their children to school.

But now, they're forced to stand here, throwing punches at each other.

The reason is simple: the governor's son in the stands "needed entertainment."

In this highly mechanized Industrial World where most residents are "cogs" on an assembly line, qualified gladiators or ferocious beasts are rare commodities.

But this young master always finds a way to "create" fun.

For example, randomly select some "disobedient" workers or those whom "he simply doesn't like".

He forced them to beat each other until one of them was completely defeated, or... until he was satisfied.

reject?

It means losing your job immediately.

On this planet, losing a job doesn't just mean starvation.

It also means that family members may face imprisonment, exile, or even more terrible "accidents" due to "collective punishment."

The Lasgun of the Governor's Palace guards were more convincing than any other argument.

And so, trembling and weeping, the two men raised their soft, yet desperate fists toward their only friend, their only solace.

Each dull thud from the impact on their flesh sent shivers down their spines and into their very souls.

My lip is cut, my nose is bleeding, and my eyes are bruised...

They were like two puppets manipulated by invisible threads, undergoing a slow and painful self-torture.

"Boring."

The governor's son pursed his lips, his voice not loud, but it carried clearly throughout the quiet noble seats.

The other noblemen's sons sat around him.

Those young people who were also born into privileged lives, enjoying the fruits of their parents' labor by exploiting the entire planet, immediately joined in with laughter and mockery.

"Yes, Master Lucius, it's not interesting at all."

"Soft and limp, like women fighting."

"By the way Lucius, have you heard?"

A young nobleman with curly hair and a silver-patterned tuxedo suddenly approached, his voice low but unable to hide his curiosity:

"It seems that the legendary Lord of Macragge, the master of the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar ten thousand years ago, the Primarch of the Ultramarines, and the son of the God-King, Robert Guilliman, has been resurrected!"

"Oh."

Upon hearing this, Lucius let out a short, disdainful sneer, his contempt deepening.

"It's just a rumor."

He reached up and adjusted the jeweled button on his cuff, his tone full of disdain:

"Those idiots who are die-hard loyal to the Imperium but don't know how to enjoy life at all are best at making up this kind of gimmick."

Last time, my father casually received a few Ultramarines passing by, and when he came back, he boasted about them as if the Primarch had been there. It was ridiculous."

"Even if... even if the Primarch really does descend, so what?"

Lucius leaned forward slightly, a hint of arrogant arrogance flashing in his eyes, and raised his voice a little, loud enough for everyone around to hear:

"The Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar today is not the same as it was ten thousand years ago!"

Ten thousand years ago, he voluntarily returned all of this to us, the families who guarded the Imperium's territory. Ten thousand years later, he can forget about taking it back from us!

"Young Master Lucius is right!"

Someone nearby immediately chimed in, "He's an ancient relic who's slept for ten thousand years, how would he know the current rules?"

"This sky over Ultramar should have been ours long ago!"

"The last time I went to the Hive World with my father, the battles in the arena there were truly thrilling. They were all real desperados, they'd go crazy at the sight of blood!"

"Exactly! These lowly workers are so weak they can't even fight. They deserve to rot on the assembly line for the rest of their lives!"

The governor's son, known as Lucius, smiled, a smile devoid of warmth, only a condescending mockery.

He slowly stood up and drew a beautifully crafted yet powerful plasma pistol from a jewel-encrusted holster at his waist.

Instead of aiming at the two men, he randomly fired two shots at the gravel at their feet!

The scorching plasma ball crashed to the ground, instantly melting the sand and gravel into two small puddles of smoky, glassy substance.

The scorching heat even burned the trouser legs of two workers, causing them to jump away in terror.

"You two vile maggots!"

Lucius's voice rose, filled with undisguised disgust and command, "Are you deaf?"

Or did the machine tool damage your brain?

I said—hit it hard!

He brandished his pistol, pointing it at their bloodied and mangled faces.

"Use your fists to smash that disgusting face of theirs!"

Did you understand?

I want to see bones! I want to see even redder blood! That's what 'entertainment' is all about!

The two men stood frozen in place, as if they had been doused with ice water from head to toe.

They understood.

This young master didn't want their perfunctory brawl; he wanted a... bloody massacre that would last until death.

They were to kill their only friend with their own hands.

The two stopped again.

Lucius's once handsome face instantly contorted, revealing a ferocious expression that was a mixture of defiant rage and deep-seated arrogance.

"Stop?!"

Who gave you permission to stop?!

He roared shrilly, his voice echoing through the arena, "You two damned fools!"

Do you want to die right now?!

Ah?!"

He took a sudden step forward, almost leaning against the railing of the stands, his fingers nearly poking the noses of the two people below (though they were quite far apart):

"Or... do you want to see your wives sold into the lowest brothel tomorrow?"

Do you want to see your children chopped up and fed to the hunting dogs in the governor's backyard?!

Um?!"

His words were like the most vicious curse, piercing the last psychological defenses of the two workers like icicles.

One of the older workers had a face covered in a mixture of sweat, blood, and tears.

He raised his head in despair, gazing at the sky above Anvil -IV, forever stained gray-yellow by industrial fumes, and murmured in a hoarse, almost inaudible voice:

"Your Emperor... I beg you... open your eyes and see... save your people..."

"Smack!"

A piece of fruit, half-rotten, was thrown from the hand of some noble boy and hit him hard on the forehead, smearing his face with juice and rotten flesh.

"Emperor?"

Lucius scoffed, his voice filled with disdain. "The Emperor is busy enjoying life on his Golden Throne; he has no time to care about the lives of you lowly commoners."

Stop pretending!