Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 236 The Miracle of the Mountains and the Oath of the Red Sand
When Angron Petra finally made up his mind to walk into the cave.

His body seemed to be split into two halves of ice and lava by what he saw before him.

His heart pounded beneath his extraordinary sternum with some kind of destined joy, and his stomach felt as heavy as if it were filled with frozen acid, burning him from the inside.

The ten thousand years of experience in this vast, dark and terrifying galaxy and the memory of meeting a certain brother not long ago were loudly told to Angron at the same time.

He would soon have to make a choice.

And not just once.

Because, although he has never met these people, he already knows who they are.

Fifty-six scarred slave gladiators were huddled tightly in the deep corners of the cave. Their bodies were wrapped in blood-stained rags from the earlier dead. Each one struggled to get up in the cold and hungry. They grasped their weapons tightly and pointed the tips of the weapons at the unusually tall and luxurious uninvited guest who walked in from the snow.

"Who are you?! Are you a lackey of those nasty High Riders or one of them?! - No, it doesn't matter anymore! You are not one of ours! Go to hell!"

A hoarse female voice spoke in Nucerian with a heavy accent. What arrived faster than the words was a sharp spear thrust towards him at a fatal speed.

Angron Petra suddenly realized at that moment that this woman should be very familiar - at least she must be familiar with someone's arm-to-palm ratio, strength and movement habits in battles or competitions - the original body. The body is so special that even through a layer of metal armor there is no mistaking it.

A suspicious and horrified expression slowly began to twist her muscles and appeared on her dirty, exhausted face that was originally indifferent to death.

In the cave, he, she, and others were all holding their breaths, waiting for his answer.

Huntress's follow-up attack didn't come as he expected.

How many possibilities for the next line of dialogue could a Primarch calculate in a single breath?

Angron reached out and stopped her attack with a speed that could not be caught by human eyes. He grabbed her leg - the sharp, blood-stained spear was tied to the huntress's stump with an adamantine chain. Yes, her legs had undoubtedly been artificially removed and then crudely strapped to the current weapon.

The blizzard outside the cave is still howling.

Not sure if my vocal cords are driven by my own free will.

Angron didn't know, but he was certain that one of his brothers might be amazed by the number of possibilities he was calculating in his mind at that moment before he answered.

He grabbed her leg tightly, but with a force that would not hurt her. This was possible because his palms and fingers covered with exquisite and strong gold armor were so wide and huge.

Then these cold, sophisticated calculations were overtaken by a searing wave of magma that surged through his mind.

"Is it you?" There was a tremor in her voice, an unbelievable tremor that at first sounded almost like surprise or surprise. But the attentive 12th Primarch immediately realized why her voice trembled: betrayal, the deepest betrayal.

His shining eyepieces were two sapphire-colored dots in her dark, shining eyes.

A chill ran down his spine and into his gut, not even the power armor's thermostat having any effect.

He opened his mouth.

The reason why Huntress was able to silently attack him from the corner was because the weapon that replaced the original position of her removed limb also came with a small anti-gravity engine. Apparently the person who amputated her limb thought that He had a rather interesting idea of ​​turning living people into flying spears, and he obviously didn't care how long the huntress whose limbs were taken away could survive like this, or whether it was convenient to move.

He looked up.

At the same time, as Angron tried to use his powers, he also realized a worse problem that he had been strangely unaware of before: his own subtle and soothing ability seemed to follow the wind and snow. Most of it disappeared during the trek - or, in other words, it became as childish and primitive again as when he first started to master it.

"Angron," he said.

His voice rumbled through the helmet's grille and echoed through the caverns of the rock, like some kind of miniature thunder.

There seemed to be the sound of cracking crystal and bones in the distance, maybe a combination of both? Some kind or creatures screamed fate in the void. The final sounds of these three words melted into the cold, sour air like a sigh, and he saw faces on each face - some were middle-aged, some were childish - there were no faces of old gladiators here anymore - The red sand has already devoured most of them for the rest of their lives in advance - showing expressions of despair, anger, or hatred towards the betrayers -

They howled and roared ferociously and raised their weapons against him.

The Huntress writhed and struggled madly in his grasp, attacking him with anything she could reach: hands, feet, the chains that bound her weapons, or her teeth, even though they could only be found on the primarch's body. Full-coverage armor leaves slight traces on the surface that can be wiped off with just one wipe.

"Angron Petra," he said.

The air froze, and the attacks and struggles stopped for a moment.

"Angron Petra." He repeated again, and at the same time he felt something painful and sharp covering the previous chill, burning up his spine and waist.

Eventually, the older man among them exchanged glances with the Huntress.

The tip of the weapon was slightly downward in a silent agreement and signal, but it was still not lowered.

"Cleist."

The huntress finally stopped struggling. She raised her head and said to the tall golden-armored giant.

Judging from Angron's experience with mortals and the changes in the muscles in his hands, it was 80% likely that she had regained a certain level of sanity, enough to talk, so he let her go and watched carefully as she rotated the sharp top of her stump. He inserted the tip of his spear into the ground, then straightened his body and stood in front of him.

"Cleist." He nodded to her gently.

She stretched out her hand to brush away the remaining frost, snow and water drops on his body, and the golden armor carved with piety and love emerged.

Kleist wrinkled his nose in disgust, "You look like those nobles we want to kill, shiny, expensive, and well-protected. That's not the Angron I know."

"But the Angron you know obviously doesn't have this name, does he?" He tried his best to add some soft emotions, and chose his most soothing voice to speak. It obviously had some effect, and the huntress hesitated for a moment. , nodded.

"He—our Angron, his name is Angron Tarc."

This name aroused ripples in Angron Petra's heart, a kind of pain, extreme pain, and even more extreme panic and disbelief. They were so intense that they aroused a feeling of being The nameless rage against all oppression and injustice is written into genes, just like the first lesson a young child learns is to become a tool for others' pleasure and kill others.

Kill! Kill! Kill!

Make everything red!
But he was Angron Petra. The Twelfth Primarch, leader of the Iron Hearts, and the proudest son and disciple of Julius Robert Omar. His brothers and heirs must still be waiting for him to return.

This cognitive spell written into his soul since his adoption and education finally succeeded in suppressing the corrosive acid-like anger and murderous impulse, and his muscles returned to their proper condition.

"So who are you? Are you Big Angron?" A boy among the slaves looked at him with eyes that were too big due to hunger and exhaustion. He looked especially like a child at this moment.

He looked around again.

Most of these escaped slave gladiators were malnourished, hungry, shivering from the cold, and had almost no armor. Rags and chains constituted their body coverings. Some of them were even just teenagers who had not yet grown into youth. If Without a miracle, their sixteenth summer would never have come.

"I am the miracle that someone owes his brothers and sisters."

Angron replied.

took off his helmet.

"I'm here to fulfill Hongsha's oath."

(End of this chapter)