The images on the screen became mottled with static, as if even the logic engine of the holographic projection struggled to withstand the fury and agony contained within this history.
An oppressive red filter blanketed the entire field of vision, accompanied by a grating background noise, like a chainsaw cutting through bone.
[If the stories of other Primarchs are epics, hymns of conquest and glory...]
[Then the story of the Twelfth Primarch is a nightmare from which one can never wake, a slow execution where free will is utterly stripped away.]
[He is the only Primarch who did not conquer his home World.]
[He is the only one—a slave.]
[The screen lights up, showing a high-tech slave World named Nuceria. The architecture here is magnificent yet cold, with spires piercing the clouds.]
[But beneath that glamorous surface lie countless groaning souls.]
[There is no glory here, only powerful elites who find pleasure in slaughter and gladiators treated as livestock.]
[When the infant Primarch landed here, he was greeted not by the embrace of foster parents, but by an ambush from a group of Xenos Assassins (Eldar).]
[Though the young Primarch displayed astonishing strength, killing all the xenos in the snow, he was immediately captured by the arriving Nucerian slave Masters.]
[He was branded, shackled, and dragged like a Beast into the blood-scented arena.]
[Then came the moment that ruined his life—the Butcher's Nails.]
[The screen gives a close-up of that horrific device: thick, rusted cables burrowing deep into the cerebral cortex like centipedes, excising the parts of the brain responsible for peace, joy, and reflection, replacing them with a stimulus engine that can only alleviate excruciating pain through extreme rage and Carnage.]
["Ziz—"]
[The screen simulates the electrical buzzing that accompanied Angron throughout his life. Every pulse of current meant a lash against his sanity.]
"That is... torture."
Vulkan watched the young Angron screaming on the operating table on the screen, covering his chest with his hands, his eyes full of shock and sympathy.
"They carved the pain into his soul. They stripped him of the right to feel joy. Aside from slaughter, he can feel nothing."
[But Angron did not yield. Even with a pain engine implanted in his brain, his soul still yearned for freedom.]
[The screen shows how he led the gladiators in an uprising.]
[They were known as the 'Eaters of Cities.']
[They wandered the wastes, fighting for 'freedom' and 'brotherhood' even when facing high-tech armies many times their size, and even when lacking food and clothing.]
[That was the only time in Angron's life he was truly 'alive.']
[On the screen, though covered in scars, a rare moment of peace flickered in his bloodshot eyes as he watched his brothers and sisters by the campfire.]
[Even without the stimulation of the Butcher's Nails, he was willing to die for these brothers and sisters.]
[However, the end arrived.]
[At Desh'ea Ridge, the exhausted gladiators, driven into a corner, were surrounded by several large armies of the slave Masters.]
[But this was exactly what Angron wanted.]
[He wanted a glorious Death. He wanted to die alongside his brothers and sisters, washing away the shame of slavery with blood, and finding eternal peace in a final roar.]
[At this sacred moment—]
[The sky split open.]
[Golden light spilled down; it was the Imperial Aquila, the craft of the Emperor of Mankind.]
[The Emperor descended.]
["Come with me, my son."]
[On the screen, the radiant Emperor reached out to Angron, his voice carrying an unquestionable majesty. "You belong to the stars, to the Great Crusade. Your destiny should not end here."]
["No!"]
[Angron refused, roaring as he pointed his axe toward the sky.]
["My place is here! I will die with my brothers and sisters! This is the freedom we want! This is the end we desire!"]
[The Emperor did not argue, nor did he send his Custodes down from the clouds to help those gladiators.]
[He simply made a cold judgment: the Primarch was a valuable asset that must be recovered; the gladiators were merely useless expendables, not worth the investment of resources.]
[And so, a teleportation beam descended.]
[Amidst Angron's heart-wrenching roars and the stunned gazes of all the gladiators, he was forcibly seized and brought onto the warship in space.]
[He could only watch helplessly through the screen as the brothers and sisters he had sworn to live and die with were slaughtered by the slave Masters' blades after losing their leader.]
[They called out his name, but he was not there.]
[He had 'escaped.']
[This became his eternal shame, a wound in his heart that would bleed forever.]
[He did not die in glory; as a surviving deserter, he was dragged back into a golden cage.]
Warhammer World
"You stole my Death!!!"
Inside the real Throne Room, a roar like that of a wounded Beast erupted, making the surrounding banners tremble.
Angron.
The World Eaters Primarch bolted upright from his seat, frantically pounding his chestplate, his bloodshot eyes fixed intently on the Emperor upon the Golden Throne.
The Butcher's Nails throbbed wildly at the back of his head, but he seemed unable to feel the pain, for the hatred in his heart hurt far more.
"You stole it! You damned slave Master! You stole my only glory!"
"I should have died there! With them! Only there was I free!"
Aside from Angron's roars, the hall was deathly silent.
Even the most loyal, Dorn and Guilliman, remained silent now.
They looked at Angron, who had been forcibly taken and was now wailing in despair on the ship's deck, and a wave of unspeakable, complex emotions welled up in their hearts.
From the perspective of tactical logic, the Emperor was right; a Primarch could not be allowed to die, and the Great Crusade needed him.
But from the perspective of emotion and morality... this was too cruel.
This was more cruel than killing him. This was destroying his soul.
"Father..."
Sanguinius murmured softly, his eyes full of sorrow.
"You saved his life, but you killed his heart."
Corax felt it even more deeply.
As a fellow liberator of slaves, if he had been taken away at the final moment, leaving the rebel army to be slaughtered... he would likely have gone mad as well.
"Why not save them?"
Corax gritted his teeth, his voice carrying suppressed fury.
"Even just one orbital bombardment... even just sending a few Custodes down... even just moving a single finger of yours!"
"Or help him fix those nails."
Magnus pointed to the cables at the back of Angron's head on the screen, his single eye flickering with incomprehension.
"Father is a Master of biological genetics; he holds the mysteries of life. I do not believe he could not fix such a crude implant."
Facing everyone's questioning, the Emperor on the Golden Throne remained as silent as a statue, as if all of this were within his cold calculations.
But beside him, Malcador lightly tapped his staff.
The mortal elder sighed, his voice aged and weary, as if carrying thousands of years of helplessness and darkness.
"We tried our best."
Malcador spoke slowly, his gaze turning toward Angron, containing no fear, only a pity that had seen through destiny.
"As soon as we brought him back, we conducted the most thorough examination. The Magos Biologis of Arkhan Land, and even the Emperor himself, tried."
"But the Butcher's Nails... they are not just a physical device."
Malcador pointed to his own head, then toward the void, in the direction of the Warp.
"The Warp has no concept of time, My Lords. The future affects the past; the effect influences the cause."
"On a level we cannot comprehend, the future 'Lord of the Red Sands' has already projected his essence into the past."
"Those nails are no longer just metal and wires. They have completely grown together with Angron's brainstem, nervous system, and even his soul."
"They have replaced his nervous system."
"If the nails were forcibly removed, Angron would die."
"His brain would dissolve, and his soul would dissipate."
"We were faced with only two choices: let him live with the nails, as a flawed but powerful tool burning in agony; or let him die completely, losing a Primarch."
Malcador closed his eyes, seemingly unable to bear looking at Angron's contorted expression.
"For the Great Crusade... for the survival of humanity... we had to choose either cruelty or waste. The Emperor chose the former."
"Because we need every bit of strength, even if that strength is broken."
Although this explanation was logical, it only made one feel more despair.
This meant Angron's tragedy was a dead knot.
From the moment the nails were implanted, he was destined never to find redemption.
His fate was locked onto a trajectory of pain and fall.
"Tool..."
Angron stopped roaring.
He stood there, his chest heaving violently, the Butcher's Nails throbbing frantically at the back of his head, bringing waves of piercing pain.
But this time, he did not go mad.
He suddenly began to laugh.
"Heh... hehe... Hahahaha..."
It was a sound between a sob and a maniacal laugh—hoarse, broken, and hair-raising, like a rusted blade scraping against glass.
Angron looked up at Malcador, then at the Emperor. Two streaks of tears mixed with blood flowed from his eyes.
"Yes... just as I expected."
Angron's voice was low, as if he were chewing on bones.
"You don't care if I'm in pain. You don't care if I've gone mad."
"You just need a tool. An axe. A mad dog that can lead an army to bite people."
"As long as I don't die, as long as I can still kill... that's enough, isn't it?"
He spread his arms, displaying his scarred, tube-filled body as if showing a ridiculous joke.
"The so-called Primarchs... the so-called demigods..."
"Are nothing more than slightly higher-level slaves."
"But I tell you..."
Angron's gaze became incredibly fierce, a determination to bite back at the Master even while being a tool.
"This axe will, sooner or later, strike the hand that holds it."
The Primarchs in the hall fell into a deathly silence.
They could not refute him.