The massacre began with the first drop of blood from the Butcher's palm.
That drop fell with him.
Amidst the grand cheers, the visitor from the heavens leaped off the platform, tracing an arc in the air.
His figure crashed heavily onto the ground, sending up clouds of red sand.
Watching this unexpected guest, the Butcher's Nails roared. Angron managed a twitching, sardonic smile, blood flowing freely.
"What do you want, slaver?"
However, his adversary ignored the taunt—
Kharn slammed his chainsword-axe into the ground, gripping its handle.
"Boom!"
He knelt.
His sleek power armor dug into the mud, splattering blood.
In the viewing stands, the cheers abruptly ceased. People stared in disbelief, unable to comprehend the scene.
Silence, absolute silence.
"I'm sorry, we arrived late."
"Father."
Kharn whispered, his blood surging, heart pounding fiercely, soul trembling.
Yet he now appeared as still as a corpse.
Angron was stunned. His prominent nose twitched unnaturally. He seemed to struggle to grasp the situation, but the incessant hum of the Nails disrupted his thoughts.
However, an inexplicable tremor, a bond from genes and soul, the immense sorrow and rage emanating from the figure before him, anchored Angron's last shred of sanity.
The Primarch spoke, his voice like a fierce wind howling over mountains,
"I'll give you one chance. Who are you?"
Kharn felt himself boiling, suffocating, convulsing.
Finally, he spoke the words every Warhound had longed to say,
"We are the Warhounds, here to bring you glory."
Without glory, he bowed his head heavily, like a sinner.
Bitterness blossomed in his mouth.
He was the fortunate of the Warhounds, but—
Without glory.
Angron managed a smile uglier than a cry, his face marred by the Butcher's Nails, a shattered demigod,
"Then help me kill them."
Answering him was the roar of Kharn's chainsword-axe.
High above in the stands, the nobles, sensing their impending doom yet unable to accept reality, spoke,
"What is happening, my lord?"
Their response was the sound of heads hitting the ground.
The massacre began.
No one knew how long the slaughter lasted. The furious Butcher had forgotten such trivialities as time.
Thousands of drop pods tore through the blood-red sky. Lances and macro-cannons ignited the heavens, the air trembled, bleeding.
Axes whirled, blood splattered, furious roars echoed, and crimson engulfed everything.
Angron, like a god of war, rampaged among the countless enemies. His powerful muscles sculpted a furious figure, his rough leather signifying his slave status, his massive axe cleaving, life spilling.
Countless Warhounds charged from the drop pods, weapons in hand, slaughtering their way to their father.
Dreadnoughts towered among the Warhounds, their melta guns and heavy bolters a rare sight in this melee.
Towering cities burned, grand banners torn, heads carelessly severed, frenzied Warhounds howled as they charged their foes.
Discipline was clearly no longer a priority.
With such a vast power disparity, they were a tempest, a tsunami, effortlessly crushing everything before them! Effortlessly devouring all in their path!
One city after another fell, one head after another severed!
Cages holding slaves were torn open, only to be swept into the tide of slaughter.
Blood and carnage pursued them.
Blood everywhere.
The fires gradually died, smoke drifted across the sky, shattered banners hung with heads, the dead with eyes still open impaled on poles.
The last sizable group of survivors fled to a cave in the countryside. Men and women, mostly old and weak.
They were the poor, or farmers outside the city.
Relying on their familiarity with the wilderness, they had survived until now.
The roar of axes approached, with Kharn leading the charge, expertly raising his weapon—
"Enough."
The axe, held high, halted.
"Enough, I said, enough."
The Primarch's raspy voice echoed in the cave, a divine sound to the commoners.
Even as the Nails still hummed.
Kharn didn't understand, but he ceased his actions.
The raggedly dressed mortals before him trembled.
Kharn turned, as if waking from a dream.
Angron's towering figure seemed to blur in the cave's entrance light, leaving only a silhouette.
"Yes, father."
He responded softly.
He then turned and followed his Primarch, each step leaving a bloody imprint on the soft soil.
They left the narrow, dark cave. In the blood-red sky, dark smoke billowed. Everywhere they looked, blood and severed heads littered the ground, while the furious Warhounds still searched the city ruins for any remaining living souls.
Angron stood atop a hill, looking over it all, scenes that had appeared countless times in his dreams.
Slavemasters beheaded, tyrants overthrown, monarchs and their ignorant lackeys paid the price.
But...
Darkness clouded his eyes. Those terrified slaves, those panicked poor...
His father, Onomarchus's words echoed in his now clear mind,
"These people aren't monsters. Don't vent your anger on them. There are many real monsters out there. They should be the target of your rage."
Some lives shouldn't pay this price.
His rage was reserved for monsters.
Angron raised his hands, then let go.
"Boom!"
His axe slammed into the hard rock, leaving a permanent mark.
He spread his arms, the enemy's blood dripping from them.
He looked at these warriors who claimed to be his progeny, at these warriors who had unhesitatingly sworn loyalty to him.
"Enough!"
Angron shouted,
"Enough!!!"
They stopped, looking around as if waking from a dream.
The rapid current halted, and they slowly converged from all directions.
Countless white-armored figures emerged from the red and black ruins, dents, dust, and blood staining their armor. Silently, they moved towards their father.
The battles elsewhere had long ended. Most Warhounds had converged on their Primarch during the earlier conflict. Now, except for the slower Dreadnoughts, most Warhounds were here.
Following the flow, the last to arrive was a special group.
Led by Chapter Master Rok, it consisted of Techmarines and Apothecaries.
Among the Warhounds, those unwilling to slaughter chose to become Apothecaries or Techmarines.
At the group's center were Angron's siblings from the gladiatorial arena.
Realizing the Warhounds' arrival was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Angron's siblings had urged him to fight alongside the Warhounds.
"Don't worry about us, Angron, kill those slavemasters."
"Angron, we know you're different from us, but they're much like you."
"Angron, go kill them. We can't keep up, but we'll try."
"Kill them before the slavemasters react, Angron.
Don't let them escape."
Then, Angron made his second request to the Warhounds,
"Help me. Let them join this battle."
He wanted to protect them, but he also wanted to fight alongside them.
But the gap in power separated them.
Carrying his siblings' hopes, Angron left, heading to an even more brutal battlefield.
He hoped... they all lived, but he also didn't want... them to be protected cowards.
The Nails interrupted his hesitation. Amid his siblings' expectations, he turned to seek slaughter.
But now they all stood here.
His siblings were all present, some terrified, others extremely excited.