Angron's resistance to anesthetics had long since been honed to its utmost.
In those years, the arena masters had used countless drugs to bring him completely under their control, each ten or a hundred times more potent than the venom coating Fulgrim's dagger.
Those drugs had burned through his veins and bored into his marrow, making him feel as though millions of needles were piercing his mind at once.
He had survived, time and time again.
Those torments had left him with a body that burned away toxins as swiftly as a furnace.
To Angron, Fulgrim's carefully concocted anesthetic was not even a tenth as potent as the drugs the Slave Master had once created to control him.
Before those dark fluids could penetrate his nerves, the savage vitality within him had already crushed them.
Angron straightened. Blood seeped from the sword wound across his chest and ran down the grooves of his muscles, but his body had already tensed again.
He looked at Fulgrim, whose face was spattered with his blood, and a savage sneer spread across his own bloodstained features.
"Don't you like drinking my blood, Fulgrim?" Angron's voice was low and hoarse, carrying a murderous intent that rose from deep within his marrow as he stared at Fulgrim.
"Now you'll drink your fill."
As he spoke, Angron suddenly threw another punch.
There was no flourish, no warning, no restraint. Pure strength surged through layer upon layer of muscle, and his massive fist slammed toward Fulgrim's chest like an exploding shell, the air booming dully in its wake.
Fulgrim tried to raise his sword to block, but before his wrist was in position, the heavy punch had broken through his defenses.
His Purple-Gold breastplate caved inward on impact with a tortured metallic shriek.
Fulgrim flew backward, his feet