They were never angels;
They were ghouls, mutants, the bloodiest and most brutal blade the Emperor ever forged.
He snatched them from the deepest pits of Pluto, exposing their twisted limbs to the thin sunlight.
Terrified, they prostrated themselves, knelt, and pleaded before the Golden King, not understanding why this monarch was attacking them.
They were merely the most insignificant inhabitants of Pluto, an inconspicuous planet, mutated far from their ancestors to adapt to the dwarf planet's environment, just as Pluto was demoted from a planet to a dwarf planet in an era humanity had forgotten.
But the Golden King came. He unleashed those bloodthirsty monsters in scarlet armor, who burrowed into their tunnels, invading them, slaughtering them, and capturing them.
They used all their abilities to resist the Golden King, but it was in vain. The Golden King killed all their leaders, snatching them one by one from their underground dwellings.
They knelt before the Golden King, His perfect and sacred body burning their flesh and making it ache, like the sun, which was indistinctly seen on Pluto.
The Golden King did not kill them. If He had wanted to kill them, He would only have needed to utterly destroy the dwarf planet with His fleet.
The Golden King implanted gene-seeds into their bodies, transforming them in blood, flesh, bone, and gene.
They were remade; their former deformities were gone, their weak spirits completely reshaped. They were tall, strong, and whole-limbed like normal people, with golden hair and handsome faces.
But they were still mutants, vile monsters, even more deformed and terrifying than before.
The moment their transformation was complete, they felt a bloodthirsty urge.
They were clad in scarlet power armor, just like those bloodthirsty monsters, given the same name as those bloodthirsty monsters, and their spirits were molded to be identical to those bloodthirsty monsters.
They were remade into the very bloodthirsty monsters that had slaughtered them.
They were the Ninth Legion, vile ghouls. They gnawed on the corpses of fallen comrades and drank the blood of their enemies.
They were elevated from mutants, then forged by the Emperor into the scarlet, vile blade, bearing the most cruel and bloody aspect of the Great Crusade.
Until he returned.
A beautiful person, a beautiful Angel, a beautiful Golden Son.
His smile soothed their hearts, his sorrow appeased their fate, his soft whispers calmed their bloodthirsty urges.
He said they were his Sons, that he would save them, that he would remake them.
They were not mutants, not ghouls; they were noble Angels.
He brought art, poetry, painting, forging, sculpture. He used these beautiful things to reshape their minds, helping them suppress the scarlet hunger in their hearts.
This seemed effective. They slowly emerged from the abyss of ghouls, and their reputation began to change. They were called Angels by the myriad people of the Imperium, and they tasted an honor they had never known before.
But had they truly transformed from ghouls into Angels?
In those deep, silent nights, they would be tormented by scarlet hunger, restless and in pain, unable to sleep.
On the most brutal battlefields, they would be roused by the rage of those around them, their sanity growing extremely thin.
In solitary corners, gazing at the blood flowing from the corpses of comrades or enemies on the ground, his throat would tighten.
Every time that happened, they would be terrified, more terrified than ever before.
They feared reverting to their former selves, becoming the twisted ghouls, defiling their current glory.
Even more, they feared failing their father's expectations, failing the Golden Son's compassion, failing that beautiful person.
Father, Golden Son, beautiful person,
You were wrong. However much you pity us now,
Our bodies are ultimately ghouls, our blood is ultimately the blood of mutants, and our destiny is ultimately blood.
Those pains, resentments, struggles, ultimately transformed into naked, burning fury at the moment of death.
Against enemies, against comrades, against themselves, against that Golden King.
Emperor, why did You forge us into such ugly, bloodthirsty beings, and why did You bestow upon us such a beautiful gene-father?
Was it to control us with him? Was it to humiliate us with him?
Or was it that You even intended to forge our father into a ghoul?
Was it just the Warp's turbulence that disrupted Your plan, saved our father, and by chance allowed him to become an Angel?
This idea was the fiercest of all rages, almost naked hatred.
Burning, burning, burning, until finally chosen by the Blood God and forged into the Red Angel.
The Red Angel was the fury of all the Sons of Sanguinius, the original form the Emperor had planned for Sanguinius.
A Bloodthirster more bloodthirsty, more furious, and more insane than anyone.
Golden King, we hate you.
Golden Son, we, we, we...
Abaddon and Fulgrim retreated almost simultaneously, putting distance between themselves and the Red Angel.
All the fury of Sanguinius' Sons, accumulated in the Warp for ten thousand years, was unleashed at this moment, directly transforming into scarlet flames that ignited the Red Angel and consumed everything around him.
Blood boiled and evaporated, marble structures disintegrated in an instant, turning to ashes and blowing away with the wind.
The flames roared, and vaguely, millions of ghouls could be heard wailing, lunging at Abaddon and Fulgrim.
The power armor on their bodies crackled under the high temperature, sparking. Even the bodies of the Primarchs, blessed by the Four Gods, could not fully withstand this fury, leaving them severely scorched and blackened.
If not for Fulgrim's cover, Finnie would have already led the mortals to escape; who knows how many would have been consumed by these flames.
Amidst the surging flames, the fire transformed into the figures of millions of ghouls, lifting the Red Angel as he flew towards the brightly shining sky.
The powerful Warp fluctuations directly tore the veil of reality, burning away space, time, logic, and causality.
For a moment, all things became chaotic and indistinct, difficult to differentiate between illusion and reality. All material things receded, leaving only the human spirit to occupy everything.
Between the burning heaven and earth, the golden, holy figure emerged.
Sanguinius spread his pure white wings, looking down from the sky at the millions of ghouls formed from fire, and at the Red Angel amidst the flames.
At this moment, the will granted to the Red Angel by the Blood God was blurry. Primitive impulses drove him to flap his wings and charge at Sanguinius in the sky.
Fury, fury, fury.
Boundless fury made the millions of burning ghouls roar in unison, growing wings and lifting the Red Angel's body, flying towards the pure white figure.
Reality completely receded, Corinal disappeared, and in the world, only fire, the Red Angel, and Sanguinius remained.
But Sanguinius did not speak, did not move.
He merely gazed with pity at the Red Angel, who was drawing closer and closer.
Or rather, he was not looking at the demon 'Red Angel'.
The Red Angel's will and existence were forged by the Blood God from the fury of the Sons of Sanguinius, like a shell encasing energy. Sanguinius was not looking at that shell, but at the fury within it.
The Angel's lips still bore his characteristic smile, a smile devoid of joy, mockery, or derision, only pity and sorrow.
That damned smile! That damned smile! That damned smile!
The Red Angel roared, or rather, the fury of the Sons of Sanguinius within him roared.
He reached out his claws towards Sanguinius—
Sanguinius did not stop the Red Angel, letting him lunge forward.
Then, he gently extended his hand and embraced the Red Angel, who was burning all over and had lunged before him, softly covering his body with his wings.
"Son," Sanguinius whispered to the millions of rages within the Red Angel. He allowed the fury of khorne to burn his body, forming numerous scorch marks.
The Red Angel froze, and the millions of rages also paused at this moment.
Their fury seemed insignificant in this moment and began to recede gently.
+ No +
But the Blood God would not allow it.
Crimson fury emanated from the Brass Throne. The Red Angel's existence and consciousness became shackles, enslaving the fury of the Sons of Sanguinius, twisting the fury of the Sons of Sanguinius.
Under the Blood God's roar, the fury originally stemming from the Emperor forging them into ghouls and attempting to forge Sanguinius into a ghoul was twisted and altered.
This fury began to truly try to drag Sanguinius into the abyss of ghouls.
The Red Angel struggled free from Sanguinius' embrace.
Sanguinius offered almost no resistance, merely watching the Red Angel with sorrowful eyes.
The Red Angel transformed into a blurry crimson figure, opening his gaping maw at Sanguinius, attempting to swallow Sanguinius whole—
Hmm?
The Red Angel slightly turned his head. He suddenly noticed that the millions of burning ghouls supporting him were disappearing one by one.
In the cave where the Red Angel's ritual core, the Khorne artifact fury of khorne, was hidden,
Gabriel Angelos and his elite Blood Ravens were like a scarlet phantom, effortlessly bypassing the Khorne daemons guarding the fury of khorne. Even the Bloodthirster stationed directly in front of the fury of khorne did not detect them.
Gabriel's steps were light, and in a blink, he arrived before the fiercely burning fury of khorne.
Then, he reached out his small hand and snatched the fury of khorne from the core of the ritual.
"We have once again successfully recovered an ancestral Blood Raven relic!"
Gabriel Angelos showed a joyful smile, like one who had a bountiful harvest.