The battle had become a one-sided slaughter.
Angron stood amid mountains of Aeldari remains, like an ancient demon god risen from a pool of blood.
Every heavy breath sent scorching white vapor billowing from his mouth. Crimson blood dripped steadily down his powerful body, gathering into sticky streams beneath his feet.
Though the Aeldari Elite Warriors around him still numbered many, this pure, incomprehensible violence had utterly cowed them. They dared only fire futile suppressive volleys with their shuriken weapons from afar. Not one dared enter the twenty-meter killing zone around him.
Occasionally, a few Aeldari Blinkers tried to teleport past this god of slaughter using psychic energy and rescue the Farseer directly.
Yet the instant their figures emerged from the void, Angron's seemingly cumbersome body erupted with terrifying speed utterly at odds with his size. His enormous palm swept through the air as though swatting flies, and the violent rush of air and sheer physical force smashed the teleporters and the psychic ripples surrounding them alike into a rain of blood!
"Riiip!!! Vrrrrr!!!"
Not far away, the chainspear in the hands of Anglia, First Company Captain of the War Hounds, roared hungrily.
With a precise thrust, he impaled the chest of an Aeldari Striking Scorpion who had tried to ambush the wounded from the shadows on their flank!
The rapidly spinning teeth instantly churned the exquisite wraithbone armor and the body beneath it into a mangled mass of flesh. The roar of the engine and the cracking of bones were drowned out by the greater din of battle in the distance.
Like a faithful mastiff, Anglia guarded the last of the wounded with grim determination, his gaze as savage as a wounded, cornered beast.
Whenever the Aeldari tried to gather for a charge, Angron let out a battle cry