“The gate is open.” Angron stepped into the manor.
Behind him, the dark iron gate crumpled and fell, its hinges rolling across the ground and shattering the white stone steps with a heavy, echoing crash.
The gun barrels in the courtyard remained raised.
Half were aimed at him.
The other half at the people kneeling on the ground.
On the steps, a white-robed noble clutched a silver staff, the fury on his face yet to dissipate.
Just moments ago, through the gate, he had been ordering them to kneel, ordering them to fire, ordering them to drag back the escaped thralls.
Now, the gate lay collapsed.
Angron stood inside the gateway.
His nearly five-meter-tall frame dominated the entire archway, shoulders scraping the crossbeam as white plaster showered down from above.
Bullet holes, scorch marks, and pale chemical burns from coolant still marred his skin, but even as his wounds knitted shut, they squeezed the shrapnel out of his flesh.
Several private guards instinctively tilted their barrels upward.
Up to his chest.
Past his throat.
But before they could aim at his face, Angron charged.
The white stone pavement shattered beneath his feet.
The front row of guards fired.
A hail of bullets slammed into his chest, unleashing bursts of blood, but his dark green muscles instantly clamped shut over the wounds.
Angron seized the shattered half of the gate hinge that had rolled to his feet and swung it in a sweeping arc.
The dark iron, dragging broken gears along with it, smashed into the ranks of the guards.
Armor buckled, gun barrels snapped, and three men were launched backward together, snapping a colonnade.
The terrace above shuddered, raining debris into the fountain and sending a spray of bloody water half a man high.
Behind a stone sculpture on the right, a concealed gun turret rose.
Angron flicked his wrist and hurled the gate hinge.
Boom!
The hinge impaled the turret, pinning the operator behind it to the wall.
The red light that had just flickered on the receiver died, leaving severed wires twitching against the stone.
To the left, a guard retreated toward the crowd of thralls.
Reaching out to grab the nearest kneeling thrall, he pressed his gun barrel against the back of the person’s neck.
Angron closed the distance in a single stride.
The guard looked up, only to see a massive shadow fall over him.
Five fingers clamped onto his shoulder plate.
And ripped backward.
Mechanical arm, shoulder bones, and half of his breastplate tore away from his torso in one piece.
The gun clattered to the ground.
Angron hurled the screaming guard into the fountain and turned toward the steps.
The white-robed noble finally found his voice, shrieking: “Kneel!” His voice was as shrill as iron needles.
“All thralls, kneel!” Angron paused for a fraction of a second.
The broadcast from the tower still echoed in his ears.
*Do not kneel.* He had only just delivered those words to the lower levels.
This manor was closest to the relay tower.
They must have heard it.
Yet the mouth on those steps was still shouting.
The barrels were still forcing people down.
Angron lifted his foot and ascended the steps.
Two heavily armored guards stepped forward to block him, locking their shields together as melta-pikes thrust out from the gap between them.
Angron reached out and grabbed the edges of the shields.
He crushed the two shields inward with sheer, brutal strength.
The guards behind them let out muffled grunts before there was only the sound of grinding armor being crushed to splinters.
Angron flung the crumpled ball of metal back up the steps, knocking over the retainers behind.
The white-robed noble raised his silver staff.
A pale blue forcefield expanded.
“This is the registered private estate of House Talq!” Angron slammed his fist into it.
The forcefield dented, the blue light flickering violently.
The white-robed noble took a step back, the gemstone on his silver staff cracking.
“These thralls are under contract!” A second fist fell.
Fissures spiderwebbed across the forcefield’s surface.
Blood seeped from the corner of the noble’s mouth, but he still gripped the silver staff with all his might.
“They belong to me—” A third punch.
The blue light shattered.
Angron grabbed him by the throat, lifting him clear off the steps.
The noble’s feet dangled in midair, his boots kicking wildly as his fingers clawed desperately at the back of Angron’s hand.
Angron dragged him down the stairs.
The steps crumbled to pieces beneath his feet, one by one.
Gunfire still rang out in the courtyard.
On the second-floor terrace, a guard propped a melta-gun over the railing.
Angron raised his hand and flung the white-robed noble upward.
The noble’s protective mantle knocked the barrel askew, sending the melta beam slicing harmlessly across the roof.
Angron picked up a shattered shield from the ground and hurled it backhand.
The terrace collapsed.
The gunner tumbled into the courtyard along with the railing.
Angron tossed the white-robed noble back to the ground.
He crashed right in front of the kneeling thralls, mouth full of blood, his silver staff rolling far away.
Angron planted a foot on his back.
The white stone cracked.
Coughing so hard he could barely breathe, the noble still raised his face, shrieking at the people bowing their heads.
“Kneel—” A collar smacked him in the face.
The sound was soft.
But Angron heard it.
He glanced down.
The collar bounced off the noble’s face and rolled into the bloody water.
Then, from behind him, came the friction of knees rising from the ground.
It was chaotic.
Very quiet.
But quickly growing in number.
The remaining guards panicked.
They turned toward the crowd, trying to force them back down with their guns.
Angron got there first.
Just as one guard raised his gun, Angron slammed his hand down on the barrel, smashing both man and weapon into the dirt.
Another guard had his legs grabbed by thralls lunging from behind.
He stumbled and fell, his stray bullets shattering the rim of the fountain.
As the man tried to crawl away, several pairs of hands pinned his helmet, pushing him down into the bloody water.
A dagger struck the wrong spot, scraping uselessly against his armor plate.
The one wielding the blade was knocked down by a rifle butt, but scrambled right back up and threw himself back into the fray.
The white-robed noble was still screaming.
His shrieks were swiftly drowned out by the wet sounds of tearing flesh and blunt impacts.
Angron did not look back.
The gate was open.
The barrels were broken.
The masters on the steps had been dragged down.
They would learn how to do the rest themselves.
Deep within the main manor, an alarm began to blare.
Urgent, shrill, pulsing with the rhythmic hum of awakening machinery.
Angron stepped over the fallen guards and entered the grand foyer.
Portraits of High Riders lined the walls, their painted eyes staring down at him.
Hidden compartments opened behind the paintings.
Two gun barrels slid out from the edges of a frame.
Angron grabbed the entire wall paneling—tearing away frames, wooden planks, and hidden alcoves all at once—and hurled it back with a reverse swing.
After a dull thud, the hidden compartment went silent.
He continued deeper inside.
Red light began to flash from the end of the hallway.
A controller on the floor was still beeping, likely dropped by the white-robed noble.
A single line of text blinked on its small screen: [Private Defense Unit Awakening…] Angron bent down to pick up the controller.
The tracking line pointed underground.
He squeezed his fingers shut, crushing the casing.
Inside, the chip still pulsed with red light.
There was something beneath the floor.
And it had already been activated.
Angron followed the red light to the end of the hallway.
He punched through the first door.
He ripped the second door down along with its frame.
The third door, a thick metal barrier, was painted with the crest of House Talq.
He didn’t spare the crest a glance.
He wedged his fingers into the seam of the door.
The metal door buckled outward.
A piercing alarm wailed from behind it.
Angron tore the entire door open.
A flight of basement stairs was revealed.
Red light welled up from below, illuminating deep claw marks on the walls.
Some of the gouges still had broken fingernails embedded in them.
Angron ducked his head and descended.
The underground hall was freezing.
Rows of metal racks stood bathed in the crimson glow.
People were strapped to them.
Shaved scalps.
Sewn-shut lips.
Neural needles driven into their spines.
Crude metal devices were nailed into the backs of their heads, cables trailing onto the floor like a mass of iron worms crawling out of their skulls.
Angron stopped in front of the nearest metal rack.
The person was still alive.
His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, tears streaming continuously from the corners of his eyes.
With his mouth stitched shut, he could only emit faint, muffled wheezes from his throat.
Angron stared at the device on the back of the man’s head.
This thing was an imitation of the Butcher’s Nails.
It was poorly made.
But it was painful enough.
Deep in the back of his own head, the residual fragments throbbed slightly.
Pain crawled down his spine.
Angron turned his head.
At the far end of the hall, a doctor in black robes was crawling toward a side door.
Angron grabbed a section of a broken restraint rack from the floor and hurled it.
The iron rack flew low to the ground, snapping the doctor’s shins and pinning him beneath a control console.
The doctor shrieked in agony.
Angron walked over and stepped on his chest.
“Shut it down.” The doctor’s face contorted in pain, yet his lips curled into a grin.
“The patriarch gave orders…” He gasped, raising a trembling finger toward the console.
“If the manor falls, release them.” Lines of status indicators on the screen turned green.
[Restraints Released] [Pain Stimulation Activated] [Kill Directive Imprinted] [Defense Unit Awakened] The doctor’s laughter grew shrill.
“You like freeing slaves?” “Now they’re all free.” Angron applied pressure with his foot.
The doctor’s ribcage collapsed.
The laughter stopped.
The first clasp popped open.
*Click.* The nearest man with stitched lips snapped his eyes open.
His sclera were completely bloodshot.
The second.
The third.
The snapping of clasps merged into a continuous clatter.
The bodies on the metal racks began to twitch, the devices on the backs of their heads buzzing loudly.
Angron stood where he was.
The first augmented thrall tore through his restraint straps, landing on all fours as the neural needles trailing from his back spat sparks.
He looked up, locking eyes with Angron.
In the next instant, he lunged.
Angron raised a hand to catch him by the face, pinning the wildly thrashing body hard into the ground.
Boom!
The red light flickered.
The floor cracked.
The augmented thrall’s nails clawed into Angron’s arms, blood trickling down his green skin.
Angron looked down and saw tears still streaming from those blood-red eyes.
He said in a deep voice: “Endure it.” More clasps popped open in the crimson light.
Within the underground hall, dozens of eyes snapped open at once.