The corridor outside the modification chamber was longer than Angron had imagined.
Red lights flickered on one after another.
The walls were embedded with surveillance lenses, spray nozzles, turret slots, and rows of cold, digital markings.
The High Riders hadn’t built the war-slave cage sector next door.
They weren’t that stupid.
The moment Angron stepped inside, the door behind him slammed shut again.
Broken metal edges jammed against the wall, showering harsh sparks.
An announcement echoed through the speaker system.
“Subject breached containment.” “Modification sector locked down.” “Lethal response level raised.” “Asset destruction authorized.” Angron paused.
*Subject.* *Asset.* Those two words made his back teeth clench tightly.
In his past life, when reading the lore, he had cursed the High Riders of Nuceria for being absolute scum.
Now actually standing here, he realized those words hadn’t been harsh enough.
This place sliced people open, numbered them, modified them, locked them in cages, and threw them onto the bloody sands to butcher each other.
And in the end, filed away their corpses.
Utterly civilized.
And thoroughly filthy.
The wall panels suddenly flipped open.
Rows of black gun barrels extended outward.
Angron raised his head.
The next instant, gunfire engulfed the corridor.
Explosive rounds hammered his chest.
Electromagnetic spikes slammed into his shoulder.
Several slender projectiles pinned themselves into his flank, their tails vibrating at high frequencies, attempting to anchor him to the deck.
Angron looked down.
The flesh around the spikes tore open, then rapidly contracted.
Muscles forced the metal out millimeter by millimeter.
*Clang.* The first spike hit the floor.
*Clang.* The second.
It hurt.
But the pain had changed.
It no longer drilled into his brain like the Butcher’s Nails.
It was merely adding fuel to the fire inside his body.
Angron kept walking forward.
The gun barrels tracked him.
A second hail of bullets swept over him.
He raised an arm to protect his face, driving his shoulders against the wall of fire as he pushed ahead.
Skin burst open.
Fresh flesh knit together.
Dark green veins bulged across his arms.
The High Riders were clearly cautious.
Forcefield locks, neurotoxins, automated turrets, servitor guards.
Any other transmigrator would already be writing their last will and testament by now.
But he was Angron now.
And the system had just given him the Hulk Bloodline.
All he could say was that these people had been matched against a thoroughly unhealthy opponent.
He charged up to the turret wall and drove his five fingers into the metal plating.
And yanked.
Half a wall’s worth of turrets was ripped out along with their wiring harness.
Sparks burst across his face.
Angron casually hurled the hunk of scrap metal into the opposite wall.
*Boom!* A section of the corridor went dark.
Cold air surged ahead.
A heavy blast door dropped down.
Frost crept across the deck, while paralytic mist spewed from pipes on both sides.
The smell was strange—like rust mixed with a sweet, coppery stench.
Angron inhaled a breath.
His lungs went freezing cold.
The next second, his throat felt like it was being scraped by sandpaper.
He coughed up a splatter of blood mixed with ice bits.
The blood sizzled with faint white smoke as it hit the floor.
This stuff worked on ordinary gladiators.
It worked on war-slaves too.
As for him…
Angron pressed his hand against the cryogenic blast door.
The skin on his palm froze solid.
When he ripped his hand back, flesh and ice cracked open together.
The pain turned his vision white for a brief instant.
Damn it.
That really hurt.
The Hulk Bloodline didn’t mean immunity to pain.
It just meant that after the pain came even greater strength.
He jammed both hands into the door gap and lowered his shoulders.
Dark green veins surged across his arms one after another.
The metal deformed under his grip.
Support frames inside the door snapped, bolts popping out of the walls and ricocheting like bullets.
*Boom!* The cryogenic blast door was ripped apart.
White mist billowed backward.
Angron emerged from the mist, his chest heaving, shoulders and back dusted with frost, steam rising from the edges of his wounds.
At the end of the corridor, a monitor screen remained lit.
It flickered a few times, showing video feeds of the lower deck.
Iron cages.
So many iron cages.
Not ordinary prison cells.
This was the combat-ready war-slave cage sector.
Rows of massive gladiators were locked inside.
Some wore half-face iron masks; some had low-tier neural interfaces plugged into their shoulders; some still had unremoved beast-fighting chains wrapped around their arms.
Yellow-green neurotoxin mist was venting out from floor pipes.
Someone was slamming their shoulder into a cage door.
Someone was wrapping chains around their fist to smash a lock.
A guard approached a cage edge, only to be grabbed by the arm by a one-eyed war-slave inside, who dragged him violently against the bars and tore out his throat with his teeth.
Blood sprayed into the poisonous mist.
The screen shuddered.
Angron saw Karrus.
Half his face was covered in blood, his left shoulder visibly collapsed, yet he was still throwing his body against the cage door.
Once.
Again.
“Again!” *Thud!* “Don’t lie down and wait to die!” *Thud!* “Angron isn’t dead yet!” The poison mist swallowed a corner of the display.
Angron stared at the screen, his knuckles cracking one by one.
That was the real issue.
He could withstand poison.
They couldn’t.
He could tank turrets.
They couldn’t.
This wasn’t a solo duel.
This was a rescue operation.
And that was the most disgusting thing about the Warhammer universe.
Just because you could fight didn’t mean you could save everyone.
The cold, synthesized voice echoed through the PA system once more.
“Combat cage sector purge in progress.” “Executioner slaves ready for deployment.” “All security personnel evacuate.” Angron snapped his head up.
Executioner slaves.
Karrus and the others wouldn’t hold out long.
A schematic flashed next to the monitor.
Densely crisscrossed lines.
Lockdown doors.
Elevator shafts.
Transport rails.
Beast pens.
Incineration chutes.
Combat cage sector.
The normal route looped around for a long distance.
This arena was like a machine.
Every level stalled for time.
Every door waited for people to die.
Angron stared at it for two breaths.
Then smashed the screen with a single fist.
No more searching for a path.
Downward.
He turned and charged over to the elevator shaft doors.
The lift hadn’t come up yet, the lockdown icon flashing red on the doors.
Angron jammed his five fingers into the seam.
The alloy door screeched painfully.
Hot steam spewed out.
He tore the doors apart.
Below was absolute pitch black.
The shaft was so deep he couldn’t see the bottom, its walls lined with rails, conduits, maintenance platforms, and automated gun emplacements.
In the distance, the muffled clang of iron cages echoed up.
Along with Karrus’s raspy, brassy voice.
“Hit it again!” Angron took a deep breath.
And leaped down.
Wind sheared past his ears.
The first battery of turrets lit up with red targeting dots.
Streams of fire immediately chased after him.
Explosive rounds hammered his back, tearing open large patches of flesh.
Shrapnel embedded in his shoulder blade, bone exposed for a split second before being forced out by rapidly regenerating flesh.
Angron grabbed a crossbeam in mid-fall.
His whole body swung violently.
Slamming straight into the nearest gun position.
*Boom!* The turret shattered along with half the maintenance platform.
He didn’t stop.
He continued to plummet.
The second set of turrets opened fire.
He grabbed a thick transport pipe.
The pipe bent under his weight, groaning in strain.
Using the momentum, Angron launched himself like a hurled boulder into the opposite wall.
The third turret battery had just finished turning when he smashed it to pieces.
Sparks illuminated the shaft.
The bottom drew closer and closer.
The clatter of iron rails grew louder.
He reached the transport deck.
When Angron crashed down, an entire section of the track collapsed.
Bloody sand, machine oil, and crushed stone blasted into the air.
Several beast cages suspended from the rails rocked violently, echoing with growls and rattling chains.
This place was even filthier than the modification sector.
Crisscrossing rails.
Suspended cages.
Dried blood crusted the walls.
Some cages held modified beasts.
Some held gladiators awaiting combat.
And some were completely empty, save for a few chewed bones.
The High Riders built this place like a slaughterhouse.
The only difference was that the livestock could talk.
The rails suddenly began accelerating in reverse.
Several heavy beast cages sped toward him.
Their doors popped open simultaneously.
Three modified beasts tumbled onto the transport deck.
They were larger than warhorses, metal plates stitched to their shoulders, stimulant needles jammed into their spines, and white foam dripping from their jaws.
Crude hydraulic claws fitted to their limbs sparked violently against the iron rails.
Angron lowered his head and rolled his shoulders.
The back of his head still hurt.
His chest still hurt.
His entire body hurt.
But right now, he didn’t have time to care about pain.
The first modified beast lunged.
Angron charged forward.
And slammed a fist down.
The metal plate on the beast’s head caved in, bones shattered, and the creature was smashed straight into the deck.
The shockwave traveled down the tracks, prying up several iron rails.
The second beast pounced from the flank, clamping its jaws onto his shoulder.
Teeth sank deep into flesh.
Angron seized its upper and lower jaws.
And pried them apart with raw force.
Blood, saliva, and mechanical spine conduits erupted together.
The third beast tried to back off.
The stimulant needles were still pumping drugs into its bloodstream, but animal instinct recognized danger faster than any drug.
Angron grabbed the metal cable at its tail, swung it around, and hurled it straight into the rail control tower.
*Boom!* The control tower exploded.
The lights on the transport deck flickered.
The rails slowed down.
Several iron cages ground to a halt mid-air.
From a cage beside the tracks, a scarred hand reached out.
The person inside hadn’t even recognized who he was yet, only seeing three modified beasts lying dead in the rubble.
Angron walked over.
Grasped the cage door.
And tore it open.
A gladiator wearing a half-face iron mask tumbled out.
Angron ripped an iron bar from the cage door and tossed it to him.
“Unlock the cages.” The half-masked gladiator glanced at him, asked no questions, and turned to smash the lock nearby.
More cage doors were broken open.
Those coming out were not old people or children.
They were war-slaves.
They were beast-fighting reserves.
They were blades raised by the High Riders to tear into one another.
Some picked up weapons the moment they got out.
Some could barely stand, yet still scrambled to strip the guards’ corpses.
A gladiator whose chest sutures hadn’t even been removed picked up a stubgun, skillfully checking the magazine faster than many regular soldiers.
Someone wanted to charge toward the upper decks.
Angron clamped a hand down on his shoulder.
The man’s eyes were bloodshot; he nearly turned around to bite.
Only when he recognized Angron did he force himself to stop.
“The nobles are up there.” “Our people are down below.” The man’s chest heaved.
“They’re laughing up there.” “I know.” “I want to—” Angron tightened his grip.
The man’s shoulder bone popped with a snap, and his face instantly turned pale.
“Save the people below first.” Angron looked down at him.
“If you want to kill, stay alive to do it.” The gladiator gritted his teeth, spat out a curse after a few breaths, and turned to sprint toward the lower deck blast doors.
Angron released his grip.
He knew full well.
These people were not refugees.
They knew how to kill.
They knew it all too well.
The High Riders kept them locked in cages, starved them, poisoned them, and forced them to tear each other apart.
When the doors opened, their first reaction wasn’t to flee.
It was to find a blade.
That was good.
And dangerous.
The edge of the blade had to be redirected.
Otherwise, what he rescued wouldn’t be a rebel army, but a pack of cornered beasts biting indiscriminately.
Behind the lower deck blast doors, Karrus’s voice sounded even closer.
Hoarse beyond human recognition.
“Hit it again!” *Thud!* “Don’t wait to die!” *Thud!* “Angron—” Angron stepped up to the blast door.
Yellow-green poison mist seeped out through the door gaps.
Inside, people were slamming against the door.
People were coughing blood.
People were still calling his name.
Angron pressed both hands flat against the door.
This time, silence fell behind the door for a brief moment.
Karrus’s voice echoed out.
“Who is it?” Angron looked down, dark green veins surging across his arms.
“Get back.” Dead silence behind the door for half a second.
The next moment, Karrus screamed at the top of his raspy lungs: “Everyone, get back!” Angron jammed his grip into the door seam.
And tore it wide open.