Time lost all meaning in the pure slaughter. For Angron, there were no passing minutes or hours, only the endless cycles of his swinging Chainaxe, only the recurring sight of enemies and buildings shattering and vanishing before his eyes.
His consciousness seemed shrouded in a crimson veil. Reason had long since been burned away by the furious flames kindled by the wails of countless tormented souls, leaving only the most primal instincts to drive this incarnation of destruction.
Forward, ever forward.
He did not know how long he had been hacking away. Perhaps several hours, perhaps only a quarter of an hour.
Nor did he know how many of those emerald-green buildings, gleaming with false splendor, had been reduced to dust and burning wreckage beneath his fury.
His senses had been stripped down to their simplest functions: if something blocked his path, he cleaved it apart with his axe; if a sound reached his ears, he drowned it out with a roar; if a moving shadow entered his vision, he crushed it into a cloud of blood.
His world contracted into an ever-extending crimson path, paved with destruction.
The warriors of the War Hounds followed close behind, but they could barely keep pace with their Primarch's charge, which spared no strength and gave no thought to defense. They could only clear and secure the breaches he tore open, eliminating the scattered pockets of resistance that survived his savage assault.
Angron was like a meteor torn from its orbit, crashing alone toward the deepest reaches of the city, toward the core where resentment and suffering gathered most densely.
At last, after smashing through a thick wall of alloy and concrete that seemed to be the final barrier as though it were paper, Angron stopped for the first time.
It was not