Warhammer: Empire Reboot

And tactical intuition for the various demonic units of Khorne.

The system strips away the noise of madness, collapse, butcher's nails, and blood god contamination, retaining only the pure knowledge graph, which is then incorporated into swarm thinking.

From this moment on, all of Lawson's assassins shared the same melee combat instincts as a Legion Primarch.

However, while processing this massive mass of memory data, which resembled stellar debris, the system's deep filtering mechanism suddenly paused for a moment.

Very slight.

But Lawson caught on to it.

An anomalous data block was stripped from the deepest layer of endless blood, bones, mad howls, and red neural noise.

Lawson cut off his external senses and focused his consciousness on the past.

It was a point of white light.

It was as faint as a candle flame about to go out in the wind.

It is not aggressive.

It has no sulfur smell.

Neither can one hear the malicious echoes commonly found in chaotic pollution.

In Angronna, amidst the soul remnants pickled by Khorne's wrath for ten thousand years, filthy to the point of being almost unrecognizable, this white light seemed out of place.

Even absurd.

Lawson touched it gently with his psychic powers.

A picture flashed into my mind.

That's not a battlefield.

It's not a brass throne either.

Instead, it was a dark, damp underground cell filled with the smells of sweat, blood, and feces.

A group of gladiator slaves huddled on a haystack.

Their bodies were covered in whip marks and unhealed wounds. They were in so much pain that they could not sleep and could only groan in suppressed pain.

A young giant sat among them.

He was taller and bigger than his peers, with broad shoulders and heavy hands, but his eyes were clear and almost gentle.

He silently opened his arms and embraced his trembling slave brothers.

As he touched them, the pain on the slaves' faces gradually subsided.

The tense muscles gradually relaxed.

Someone finally fell asleep.

Someone is crying in their dream.

The young giant lowered his head, clenched his teeth, and bulged the veins on his forehead.

He absorbed everyone's pain into his own body.

He didn't utter a sound.

The image is shattered.

Lawson opened his eyes.

Raindrops landed on his brow bone, bounced off the living metal surface.

He stared at the white light deep within his consciousness, but did not speak immediately.

He recognized what it was.

This is something from before Angron was contaminated by Khorne.

This was before the Nukelian slave owners put him on the operating table, implanted the butcher's nail, and destroyed his brain structure.

This is a fragment of a pure soul that has just descended to the mortal realm, possessing the highest Primarch talent bestowed upon it by the Emperor, "Empathy," which allows it to absorb and soothe the pain of its brothers.

When the Emperor created the twenty Primarchs, each of them had a specific function.

Angron wasn't supposed to be a mad dog.

He was supposed to be the glue between the originals.

They are the ones who bear the brunt of the soldiers' suffering.

He is the Legion's healer.

Knukelia's butcher's nail ripped out his empathic brain and filled his soul with eternal agony.

Thus, the original Primarch, who was originally the kindest, was forced to become the most ruthless butcher in the entire galaxy.

Everyone assumed that the empathetic gladiator had died on the operating table ten thousand years ago.

Even Angron himself had forgotten about him.

But the system's absolute purification does not take emotions into account.

It also doesn't discuss historical tragedies.

Like a pair of molecular-level tweezers, it forcefully scraped out this last pure white fragment from the deepest part of the soul remnants soaked in Khorne in Angron, which had not been assimilated but had been self-isolated for tens of thousands of years.

Lawson looked at it for a moment.

Then, he casually tossed it into the depths of the stasis field.

"Keep it for now."

He said in a low voice, "Not all of the scrap is waste."

Chapter 172 Nurgle's Chosen Typhon, Perfect Time to Test His Axe!

at the same time.

Angron's death stirred up a real storm deep within the warp.

Khorne's Brass Fortress.

This fortress, built from the skulls of millions, stands in the heart of a never-ending wasteland of war. Hot blood flows in the moat, with broken horns, limbs, and tattered battle flags floating on its surface.

Deep within the fortress, atop the bronze throne, the being had not experienced such intense emotional fluctuations in a long time.

terrorism.

Blood God.

The master of the skull.

A concrete representation of war, fury, and slaughter.

The moment the last piece of Angron's flesh was swallowed by the black hole, the being on the throne felt a sense of loss.

The causal thread belonging to Angron was severed at the root by an absolutely cold scalpel.

The Twelfth Legion Primarch, the ultimate physical weapon in the Khorne faction second only to the Blood God himself, was erased from the conceptual level of the universe.

The brass throne trembled.

The next moment, a roar exploded.

The roar, indescribable in mortal language, transformed into a tangible red psionic tsunami that surged out of the fortress corridor.

The blood in the moat evaporated instantly.

Outside the fortress, the vampires, fleshhounds, and blood-crushing cavalry who fought eternally to please the Blood God didn't even have time to turn around before they exploded in the wrath of the gods, turning into fine warp dust.

On the Brass Wasteland, all the war drums exploded simultaneously.

In the distant projection of the real universe, several stars erupted with deadly flares.

For Khorne, Angron was far more than just a henchman.

Of the Primarchs who turned to Chaos, Angron was the purest.

He doesn't need conspiracies.

No doctrinal justification is needed.

There's no need for corrupt rhetoric.

He only slashed, killed, and bled.

He is the highest-level embodiment of the laws of terrorism in the real universe.

More importantly, he was a crucial bargaining chip for Khorne in suppressing the other three gods.

Every time Angron descends into reality, he brings back a massive amount of sacrifices and faith.

Now, that stake has been liquidated.

Khorne's will transformed into a burning oracle amidst the boiling sea of ​​blood, imprinting itself into the minds of all the great demons, war lords, and Khorne champions who were qualified to hear it.

"That thief who steals souls!"

"Flood that coordinate with blood!"

"Fill that gap with your skull!"

"Tear open the veil of that metallic planet!"

“Grind Lawson and his one hundred million puppets to pieces, inch by inch!”

"I want him to live, to watch his body be devoured by brass hounds for ten thousand years!"

Khorne's fury spread along the warp tides.

From the depths of the Eye of Fear to the wandering warbands at the edge of the galaxy, countless warships adorned with brass runes began to forcibly change course.

They leaped into the storm without regard for their own safety.

There is only one goal.

Agrippina.