The warship's interior had become hell on earth.
The broad main passage, once lined with alien pipes and luminous fungal mats, was now strewn with the bodies of countless Rangdan Soldiers and Elites.
Some had been cleaved in half at the waist, their entrails spilling across the floor.
Others had their skulls or chests split open, their eyes still staring in death.
Some had even been smashed into pulp by terrifying force, plastered against the walls or ceiling in an abstract, bloody graffiti of death.
Fluorescent blood gathered into streams, flowing slowly down the sloping passage and reflecting an eerie glow beneath the dim emergency lights.
The air was thick with the smell of rust, the stench of burnt protein, and the cold breath unique to death.
Like a tireless, unceasing war machine, Angron advanced along that bloody path, hacking his way forward.
Angron had no destination. His only goal was slaughter, to crush everything in his path.
Groups of Rangdan Soldiers trying to block him? He charged straight in, swinging both axes in crossing arcs, sweeping through them like a whirlwind and leaving shredded flesh and severed limbs in his wake.
Elites hiding behind cover, firing heavy weapons?
Angron did not even bother to dodge. He strode through the scattered fire, split their cover with one axe blow, and took the shooter's head with the next.
Heavy blast doors blocking his way? Stop? Not a chance.
He merely adjusted the angle and force of his swing. Charged with the Primarch's terrifying strength, his Power Axe sliced through the thick alloy doors as though they were butter, hewing a massive opening large enough for him to pass through!
The piercing shriek of tearing metal drowned out even the distant explosions and screams.
And so he continued, cutting down everyone he