Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

"What nails?" Perturabo asked subconsciously. Then, following Angron's line of sight, he suddenly touched the steel cable above his head, "What do you mean?"

"That's not the Butcher's Nail..." Dorn coughed to clear the ashes from his mouth, and worked hard to dig himself and his golden armor out of the wall.

Angron obviously realized that something was wrong. The anger and bloody aura quickly faded away, and the guardian's resolute aura dissipated - and the cognition he used to maintain the coherence of his self-cognition when he woke up also ceased. He is no longer a fighter on the red sand. He is a completely new individual to the circumstances in which he finds himself.

Angron reached out to help Dorn and moved his lips to Dorn's calm "thank you", not knowing what to say.

The silvery ceiling, the clean floor, the appropriate temperature, and the faint smell of disinfectant made Angron extremely unfamiliar with everything in this room, which even caused an uncontrollable panic.

He vaguely recalled the beginning of everything. He seemed to be in a cold and clean cylinder, wrapped in some kind of hard metal, falling among the mountains in a bumpy state.

"That's the data cable that our brother Perturabo studied himself." Dorn said, "It's not the Butcher's Nail."

Although no one had yet told him what the Butcher's Nail was, Perturabo could still guess some details from the faces of Dorne who had interacted with the Nucerians.

"Perhaps our attire caused you to misunderstand, brother." He said as calmly as possible, "We are both leading soldiers in the war. The blood stains on this robe come from you, and I treated some wounds for you. I am Perturabo and he is Rogal Dorn."

"So you... nailed these things into your brain?" Angron asked in disbelief.

The pipeline that is very similar to the Butcher's Nail always evokes his worst associations, control, humiliation, madness, these are all the concepts he can get from this device.

"Your description is not wrong."

said Perturabo. He untied the loops of cables and pulled one out, holding it in his hand to show Angron the harmlessness of the wires. It is best to use auxiliary tools to disassemble the cables one by one. Forcibly unplugging them all will cause severe sensory disturbances, but it is still possible to remove them one at a time.

"But I think protection rather than harm is the original intention of this set of hardware templates. No one will be hurt by these cables except our enemies."

Angron shook his head, still unable to accept it.

The first question he asked had nothing to do with the three Primarchs present: "Where is the old warrior with whom I was wrestling?"

"Seriously injured, not life-threatening. He is sleeping." Dorn said, his steady tone had a special calming effect. "We imprisoned the nobles and gave the remaining gladiators a temporary rest in the palace."

Angron closed his eyes, leaned his back against a solid wall, bowed slightly, and tried his best to remove the battle-ready posture he had been accustomed to for a long time, and relax his muscles. There was a sense of relief about him.

I don't know what he thought of, but a layer of shuddering disgust suddenly appeared on Angron's face. The original body quickly suppressed his uncontrollable emotions and forced a forced smile.

"Are you demigods?" he asked hoarsely.

Both primarchs were stung by this question at the same time. They each had the experience of being widely admired by some kind of alien creature.

"We are Primarchs." Rogal Dorn quickly answered, emphasizing their species classification. "We are people created by the Emperor of Mankind to fight for the future of mankind. The Emperor opposes any religious rhetoric and deification. Individual behavior…”

"First, we are your brothers." Perturabo interrupted Dorn, for every time the word "Emperor" was mentioned, a tiny twitch appeared in Angron's facial muscles. "We are scattered across the galaxy, but we come from the same source. We need you."

Angron listened to their words quietly, blood oozing from his open wound.

"You are demigods," he said, and Perturabo was not sure if there was any irony in the gladiator's assertion. "And I am a slave. Do you need me? What do you like about me?"

"We have only spoken for five minutes, brother," said Perturabo. "We have only had time to see that you are a warrior and a merciful guardian."

"Where do you need me to go?"

"In the Milky Way."

said Perturabo, wondering whether he should persuade Dorn to fetch his translator-talker, lest the latter stand here as a stake with his golden armor that stung his new brother's eyes.

"For the unity and well-being of all mankind, we want more planets to join our father's country. Of course, Nuceria belongs to you. You can deal with this decadent and barbaric world according to your own wishes."

"This world belongs to me?" Angron tried to confirm.

"It is your home planet." Perturabo nodded and stretched out his hand to Angron.

"Thank you." Angron said, his voice low and without raising his hand, "But...I'm sorry. I need to stay."

He did not respond to Perturabo's overtures. This surprised Perturabo, and a surge of anger rose in the sky - not against Angron, but against the slave owners on this planet. He understood Angron's concerns very quickly. After all, it was not difficult to imagine a gladiator's resentment towards powerful people and worries about his companions.

What did these slave owners do to his brothers!

Then, this anger suddenly weakened abnormally. In the gentle eyes that were contrary to Angron's fierce appearance, Perturabo was shocked to see a state of guilt and boredom coexisting.

Angron raised his arm and held his hand. The two palms of similar size were roughened for different reasons. From the subtle look on Angron's face, Perturabo knew that this brother actually understood him. Their keen awareness of each other goes far beyond the limitations of any bloodline or psychic ability.

This also made Perturabo understand that the delayed handshake only symbolized a personal apology, not a promise of return.

"You have described a beautiful vision, Perturabo, Rogal Dorn. I... thank you for all you have done. But I belong here, and I cannot leave my brothers and sisters."

Angron let go of Perturabo, his restlessness and weariness forming a torn feeling that was both vivid and dead. His life seems to have passed the end in a fiery burning, and he is staying now just to make up for the regrets he had during his lifetime.

"You don't want to join us," Perturabo repeated, not knowing what else to say.

Angron's fingers visibly spasmed as he spoke.

"You are the ones who lead the troops to fight." He said, there was no malice in his sad eyes. Standing here is a combination of half ghost and half soldier, always torn between emotional disgust for power and rational gratitude. In addition, there were many mixed resistance emotions integrated into his scarred body-the experience in the gladiatorial ring changed him forever.

"Your description of war glorifies the act of inflicting violence on others and subjugating free will to power. I can't do that, I'm sorry." Angron said, pausing. "I want to stay and lead my brothers and sisters to kill those of Nuceria's nobles who deserve to be killed."

Perturabo tried to find a reason to correct him, but his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth, making it difficult to move. He quickly thought of a solution. Perhaps he could wait for Angron to fulfill his wish before returning to Nuceria. But from every angle, this approach sucks.

"Okay." In his silence, Dorn suddenly spoke. Perturabo tensed immediately, he could trust Rogal Dorn with anything but dialogue.

Dorn seemed unaware of Perturabo's emotions, and Angron's wide eyes did not stop the second half of his sentence.

The White-haired Primarch said calmly: "When you kill the Nucerians in the war, we will build a rear civilian base for you, optimize the civil infrastructure, and build more civilian houses. Perturabo and I both have rich experience."

"But, you..." Angron was stunned.

In his conception, generals and engineers had nothing to do with each other, and two demigods as tall as him clearly wanted to invite him to become a general.

Of course he could feel the pure kindness of both men, and the warm emotion radiated with a glimmer of pain relief. But his tiredness of fighting and conquering had long since reached its peak, and it exploded when he jumped into the stands and killed the last dignitary present.

Emperor, he noticed the word. Fighting for imperial power is nothing more than being a more glamorous slave in a larger arena. He couldn't accept it, not to mention that his real family was in Nuceria?

But Rogal Dorn announced in such an understatement that he wanted to stay, and it sounded like he was not going to fight, but to... build a house?

Did the emperor have any personal additional terms for the definition of general?

In his long astonishment, Donne finally showed a hint of confusion.

He asked calmly: "Why are you staring at me, brother? In the conversation you just had, you didn't mention that we needed to leave. After comprehensive consideration, I think sending the construction team is the right choice."