Warhammer 40: My Fiancée Fulgrim

"Irelia, where are their voices?"

"Initiating... The Spirit Bone Network hasn't been set up in the new warships yet; many things haven't been implemented in time."

"Okay, I'll relay this to you: they're discussing whether or not to give it to Anglon—"

"Butcher's Nail? What's that?"

"quick!!!"

The moment he heard that name, Casca rushed towards the spaceship's landing platform without looking back.

The good news is that we made it!

But the bad news didn't arrive very quickly!

Time is of the essence; they must immediately descend to the surface and stop this from happening!

"Casca, you—"

"There's no time to slowly log in and gather intelligence now! We need to complete the rappelling immediately!!!"

Urgent!

The King of Chopping is about to drive in the nails, and you're still not in a hurry!

"Airdrop warehouse, now!!!"

Now, Casca no longer has time to slowly gather intelligence and complete preliminary preparations.

Even small landing craft are not suitable; the fastest airdrop pods must be used to complete the landing!

"Quick, angel!"

As he spoke, Casca hurriedly waved to Sanguis, who was rushing behind him.

"Let's land directly in the arena together!"

Chapter 140 How come this Angron is so weak!

Nukaria.

The young man only remembered being thrown into this enormous, all-encompassing cage, along with many other slaves like himself.

He felt the clamor erupting from all directions.

That was the cheering of a blood-soaked spectator behind the high walls, in the multi-tiered circular arena surrounding them, layer upon layer, with no end in sight.

A small flying instrument made of some kind of silvery metal followed him.

Perhaps he would later hear from others that this thing was a tool used by the local "high knights" to create a lively atmosphere and observe the slaves' behavior.

They call it the "maggot's eye".

He didn't understand their language, but as if by some special skill from within, he was able to understand their meaning instantly.

In front of him was a towering trapezoidal pyramid, its surface pitted and uneven, seemingly bearing traces of acid corrosion.

".start!"

The announcements and cheers from the crowd came from all directions of the pit almost simultaneously.

Immediately afterwards, a huge circular drain built on the high wall opened by rotation, and a liquid emitting a foul odor poured out, gradually submerging the entire deep pit.

If not dealt with in time, the foot of a slave next to him quickly corroded and festered from being soaked in the liquid, causing him to scream in agony.

A new round of cheers and shouts erupted from the stands.

The acid level continued to rise.

The base of the pyramid had been submerged, and the space he and the other slaves could stand in was constantly shrinking.

Eventually, all the slaves began scrambling for the few remaining places to stand.

The higher you go, the greater the gradient of the steps, and the more physical effort and difficulty it requires. One wrong step and you could fall off these smooth surfaces soaked in acid.

pain.

As more and more slaves cursed and killed each other, he felt an extreme pain.

As if he himself had fallen into the water, he seemed to truly empathize with those defeated slaves.

Acid can melt a person into blood, but not very quickly.

With the help of the Maggot Eyes, they could clearly see how the hair, skin, flesh, and bones of the slaves who had failed and fallen into the water reacted with the foul-smelling liquid drop by drop as they struggled desperately.

Burning, rotting, peeling off, melting.

And eventually it completely merges with the acid.

"no, do not want"

He felt all the pain and sorrow.

But despite all that, he still wanted to live.

In battles with others, he tries his best to minimize the pain he causes, ensuring that his opponents lose consciousness before they fall into the acid.

But he could still feel the bitterness of death.

Finally, he stood at the very top of the final pyramid.

"Watch closely, people of Desia!"

The maggot eye that had been floating around him emitted a hoarse sound.

"Your copper coins and the harvester of happiness, this young boy, he unexpectedly won the Devil's Tears!"

"Which family bet on the boy's victory and won him as a slave?"

"Tark! The Tark family won this slave!"

“Answer me, you little brat.”

"what your name?"

But he has no name.

He was just a boy found by the high-ranking knights of Nukelia atop the northern mountains, from among a strange pile of corpses by the slave-hunting party.

"no name?"

The silver machine spun a few times in mid-air before returning to its original position.

These moving maggot eyes named him "Angron," which means "son of the mountains" in an ancient language.

"Angron Tark—this new gladiator slave is about to join our upcoming epic game!"

"game.?"

He said, his voice trembling.

So tragic, so sorrowful, so painful

How can this be a game?

How can people find amusement in the suffering of others?

he does not know.

But the audience's excited cheers were never fake.

The Colosseum of Nukelia.

After numerous gladiatorial victories, Angron's fame gradually spread throughout the place called Desia.

The gladiator, shackled, sat in a damp room reeking of mold and stench, roughly and awkwardly sharpening a short knife in his hand—a knife whose owner he did not know, but which must have been there for a long time.

However, as slaves were the private property of their families, the actual death duels that took place in gladiatorial combat only occurred on certain major holidays or sacrificial days.

Otherwise, they couldn't withstand this level of strain.

It wasn't out of human nature, but solely out of consideration for the loss of property.

But ultimately, it gave Angron a chance to catch his breath.

"What's wrong, Angron? What are you thinking about now?"

An older man sat beside Angron, his face covered with overlapping old scars and sporting a stiff, gray beard.

This elderly gladiator had often taken care of Angron since he arrived here.

"Onomamus, who are those people?"

"Angron said indignantly."

He stared at the cave ceiling, as if he could see through the cavern all the way to the arena above. "What kind of humans would take pleasure in the suffering of others? Are these guys monsters?"

He couldn't understand this way of thinking.

Whenever he inevitably killed his opponent in a gladiatorial combat, Angron could feel an intense pain emanating from his very core.

"Monsters? No, they are not monsters."

The old soldier only gave a bitter smile: "You are a child of the mountains, right? You don't know that these people also live extremely painful lives."

"But why—"

“It’s complicated. But I’ve seen those people’s lives; I was born there, in a slum filled with despair.”

“Every day I wake up to fight with others for fewer resources than yesterday.”

"There is no way out, only bottomless despair—just like we are now."

"And their only solace in this life is the bloody thrill of seeing us fight each other to the death, which gives them a little psychological comfort."

"So, Angron."

Onomamus paused.

“Those people are not monsters; their situation is just as miserable as ours. Don’t blame them.”

“There are monsters that are more ferocious and vicious than them; they are the ones you should be angry at.”

The old gladiator spoke, his eyes fixed on the silver machine that floated back and forth in the arena.

In this arena, Angron and Onomamus fight side by side.

The two gladiators, with their exceptional skills, defeated one after another the beast hordes released by the high-ranking knights.

The mutated goat-headed monsters roared and galloped, their mutated hooves pounding the red sand and kicking up clouds of dust.

But before Angron, they all turned to dust.

His skillful fighting prowess elicited another burst of loud screams and applause from the audience.

This is just the beginning.

The heavy, bronze-colored door was pulled open with difficulty by a group of slaves, followed by two giant-like Oglin warriors.

They were two fierce warriors clad in heavy brass armor, their height nearly matching that of Angron. Human skin hung from spikes covering their armor, and human skulls were strung on dangling chains.

One of the two men wielded a pair of giant power axes, while the other had an iron chain wrapped around his left arm and wielded a terrifying flail hammer.

They all wore "Butcher's Nails"—a type of crest resembling Khorne's rabbit ears—and beneath the crests were data cables—said to be steel braids hanging from the back of their heads.

This device can amplify a person's aggressive desires and wash away all emotions in the mind except anger.

Once this thing is connected to your mind, every thought except for the desire to kill will be subjected to endless torment.

Yet another twisted creation born from humanity's desire to kill each other.

Why would such a device be developed to incite people to fight each other, and what is the point of it?

What is the point of letting people fight each other?

Beneath Anglong's solemn expression lay a deep sense of bewilderment.

But now is not the time to ponder these philosophical questions.

As the audience's enthusiasm grew, Angron raised his sword and shield high.

The battle lasted a full seventeen minutes.

That's right.

One fucking Primarch, and two fucking Oglins, fought for a fucking seventeen minutes.