The image on the screen gradually froze on Angron's face, covered in blood but wearing a complex smile, before slowly fading out.
A deathly silence followed.
No one spoke. Even Leman Russ, who usually loved to comment, kept his lips tightly shut, his eyes fixed on the red figure in the hall with a complicated expression.
Suddenly, a hair-raising sound broke the silence.
"Heh..."
"Hehe... Hahahaha..."
It was Angron.
This Primarch, tortured by the Butcher's Nails for a century, this Lord of the Red Sands who had always roared, struggled, and cursed like a mad beast, was actually laughing now.
It wasn't the usual mad laughter full of killing intent and insanity, nor was it a bitter laugh of self-abandonment.
It was a kind of... relieved laughter, as if he had seen something extremely absurd yet extremely wonderful.
He knelt on the ground, hands propping himself up, his whole body shaking with laughter, tears mixing with nosebleed as they dripped onto the floor.
"Did you see that?"
Angron looked up, his bloodshot eyes scanning his brothers around him before finally resting on the now-dark screen.
"Those are my sons."
His voice was raspy, yet it carried an unprecedented, twisted sense of pride.
"Those are War Hounds. Those are true War Hounds."
Angron pointed toward the screen, his fingers trembling. "They didn't run away."
They didn't hide in the back like those robed cowards. They didn't beg for mercy like those slaves who only know how to kowtow."
"They charged at me. At a Primarch, at a monster."
"Even with only half a body... even with guts spilled all over the ground... that kid named Korlag still managed to land a blow on me."
Angron touched his throat as if there were a real bullet hole there.
"Good job... truly a good job."
He suddenly turned his head, looking at Khârn beside him, and then at the World Eaters captains who would follow him into corruption in the future.
"Look at them, and then look at me."
Angron's laughter stopped abruptly, replaced by a bone-deep sorrow and self-loathing.
"I kept roaring that I was a fighter for freedom, that I resisted tyranny, that I was the Gladiator King of Nuceria."
"But in reality?"
Angron pulled at the chains around his neck, making a clattering sound.
"I am the slave. Enslaved by the nails, enslaved by anger, enslaved by that bald man (Horus), and finally to be enslaved by that bastard sitting on the Brass Throne (Khorne)."
"I lived to become what I hated most—a High Rider of Nuceria spreading fear and Death."
"And they..."
Angron stared into the void, as if seeing those blue-and-white figures who died in those ashen ruins.
"They died like free men. For their oaths, to protect the brothers behind them, they threw punches at an invincible power."
"They are more like Angron than I am. They are more worthy of the title 'Gladiator' than I am."
Angron lowered his head and let out a heavy sigh:
"They are my sons. It is I who am not worthy of them."
The atmosphere in the hall became solemn and grave.
Vulkan slowly stepped forward.
The benevolent Lord of the Salamanders had tears in his eyes at this moment.
He didn't look at Angron, but instead, facing the direction of the screen, he solemnly struck his breastplate, performing the highest funeral rite of the Salamanders.
"They are true War Hounds."
Vulkan's voice was deep and firm, echoing in the hall. "No matter who their genetic father was, no matter whose blood flowed through them. In that moment, their souls were golden."
"They were not consumed by hatred, but used hatred as fuel to protect the last hope."
"If they were still alive..." Vulkan glanced at Angron, "I would be honored to fight alongside them."
Even the habitually proud Lion El'Jonson nodded slightly at this moment.
"Though their tactics were crude, their courage is commendable," the Lion said softly. "Facing a hopeless end, they still dared to swing their swords at a god. That is the meaning of the Astartes' existence."
Meanwhile, in the camp of the traitors, the atmosphere was suffocatingly oppressive.
Horus slumped in the Warmaster's seat, his hands hanging limply by the armrests.
He looked at the screen, at the slaughtered World Eaters, at the mad Angron, and recalled the figures of Loken and Tarvitz from before.
"So tragic..."
Horus murmured to himself, his voice filled with exhaustion and a deep sense of helplessness.
"This is not just Angron's tragedy; this is a tragedy for all of us."
"Look at what we've done... for a so-called 'New Order,' for that ethereal 'future.'"
"We have personally sent the most loyal, the bravest sons who were most like us into the grave. And then left behind a bunch of..."
Horus glanced at Erebus, a flash of disgust in his eyes, "...left behind a bunch of scum who only know how to flatter and lie."
"All of this is already beyond redemption."
Horus closed his eyes. "When the first drop of a brother's blood fell on the soil of Istvaan, we had already lost. No matter who wins this war in the end... our identity as 'fathers' is already dead."
Above the Golden Throne, that golden radiance remained brilliant, but there seemed to be a slight flicker more than usual.
The Emperor of Mankind, that rational, cold, and calculating Emperor, was currently conducting a silent conversation with his most loyal regent, Malcador, through a psychic link.
He watched Angron's tears and the dead War Hounds.
[Malcador.]
The Emperor's voice echoed in the regent's mind, still calm, but a crack seemed to appear in that calmness.
[I saw it.]
[I saw that Twelfth Legion, which I regarded as a 'failure.']
[I always believed that because of the Butcher's Nails and because of Angron's damage, this Legion was destined to be a broken weapon that would not only wound the enemy but also itself.]
Malcador lowered his head slightly, responding in his heart: [Yes, my Lord. We once assessed the necessity of purging them.]
[But at the final moment...]
The Emperor's gaze pierced through time and space, as if seeing again that Korlag with only half a body, that Ehrlen with a severed arm, and that Dreadnought slamming its broken chassis into the Primarch.
[They burst forth with an astounding radiance.]
[They are good tools.]
The Emperor habitually used this word.
In his grand chess game, Primarchs were kings, Astartes were pawns, and mortals were resources.
Everything was a tool serving the ultimate goal of human survival.
But the next second.
The golden figure sitting on the throne paused slightly.
[No.]
The Emperor corrected his own words.
This was an extremely rare moment. The omniscient and omnipotent Emperor corrected his own judgment.
[They are good sons.]
[In the absence of a father's teaching, in the face of a father's betrayal, after suffering the most unjust treatment and being implanted with the most painful nails...]
[They still held fast to their oaths.]
[They did not fall because of pain, nor did they surrender because of despair. They are more excellent than many warriors who had perfect fathers and superior environments.]
The Emperor's gaze swept over Guilliman, Dorn, and Sanguinius who were present.
[Those flowers grown in greenhouses may never understand this kind of loyalty that blooms in magma and toxic gas.]
[Angron was wrong. I was also wrong.]
[The Twelfth Legion is not a failure.]
[If there were a chance... if they could be given a father without nails, if they could be given a just battlefield...]
[They could have become the Imperium's sturdiest shield, its sharpest spear.]
[A pity.]
A barely audible sigh echoed in a corner of the Warp.
[We lost a group of our best sons. And what we gained is a curse named 'Khorne.']
The Emperor regained his statue-like majesty, but as his gaze passed over Angron, it held one less part of indifference and one more part of deep, unspeakable compassion.