The Patriarch of House Talq crashed onto the execution platform.
His platinum power armor was mostly shattered, the beast crest on his chest warped and deformed from Angron’s blows.
The snapped pieces of his neural whips were still wrapped around his arms, sending sporadic crackles of electricity through him that made his whole body twitch.
The Bloody Sand Arena fell silent.
Hours ago, when this platform rose, the laughter of nobles had echoed below.
Now, the ground below was packed with people who had ripped off their collars.
Gladiators.
Labor thralls.
Maintenance thralls.
House thralls who had charged out of the estates.
And augmented thralls who could only stand steady with support.
They looked up at the platform.
There were no cheers.
Nor did they rush the stage.
The weight of those countless eyes pressing down on the Patriarch of House Talq was heavier than any iron chains.
Angron stood at the edge of the execution platform.
His towering silhouette blocked half the light.
The Patriarch of House Talq wheezed, trying to push himself up.
His broken power armor let out a harsh, grating screech.
No sooner had he raised his head than Angron pinned his shoulder guard down with a foot.
*Crack.* The shoulder guard caved in.
The Patriarch of House Talq groaned, his face pressed back against the blood-stained floor of the platform.
“You said the registry is in your hands.” Angron looked down at him.
“Open it.” Over by the control console, a tech-slave had already connected the execution platform’s projector.
On the damaged spectator stands, battered old screens flickered back to life.
Screens originally meant to magnify arena wounds and display bets for the nobles now all turned toward the center of the Bloody Sand Arena.
The tech-slave’s voice came through the loudspeakers, trembling but unbroken.
“The archives require the Patriarch’s biometric key.” Angron grabbed the Patriarch of House Talq by the back of his neck and shoved his face against the scanner screen on the side of the execution platform.
The screen flickered.
[Verifying Identity] The Patriarch of House Talq’s teeth were coated in blood.
He kept his mouth shut.
Angron’s fingers tightened.
The neck guard buckled, digging into his flesh.
“Speak.” The Patriarch’s breath hitched, his eyes bloodshot.
After a few moments, he finally choked out a response.
“House Talq master key…
confirmed.” The screen lit up.
[Access Granted] A cascade of archives projected from the console into the air.
Names.
Serial numbers.
Ages.
Origins.
Dispositions.
It was like a cold rain falling over the Bloody Sand Arena.
Someone below recognized a name.
First came a faint gasp.
Then more voices rose.
People pressed forward.
Some covered their mouths.
Others stared at the screens, watching long-lost brothers, children, and partners reduced to a few lines of text, suspended in midair.
Angron looked at those archives.
Each line was incredibly short—so short, it was as if the High Riders had never considered them human lives.
[Sent to the Bloody Sand Arena] [Transferred to the Beast Pens] [Sold after Family Separation] [Implanted with Experimental Nails] [Deceased, Body Incinerated] He raised his eyes.
“Read them.” The tech-slave hesitated.
The Patriarch of House Talq suddenly laughed.
His laughter came in fitful bursts, bubbling through bloody froth.
“Read them.” He lifted his face and looked at the crowd below.
“Do you think this will make me feel ashamed?” “These files are all registered.” “Every labor thrall, every transfer, every arena match is fully authorized by the Council.” His voice grew louder, as if he had regained the feeling of standing high on his dais.
“The Bloody Sand Arena needs stock.” “The mines need punishment.” “The beast pens need young subjects for training.” “The nobles’ wagers bring in taxes, and taxes keep this city running!” A low stir ran through the crowd.
Angron did not interrupt.
He let the Patriarch of House Talq keep speaking, letting everyone hear it clearly.
The Patriarch coughed up blood, yet still forced his voice out.
“Where do you think your lowest-grade nutrient paste comes from?” “Who built the pens you live in?” “Without the High Riders to manage you, you wouldn’t survive three days.” He glared at Angron, venom re-igniting in his eyes.
“By setting them free, you will only cause this city to rot.” Angron crouched down.
The execution platform groaned and sank under his shifting weight.
The Patriarch’s voice choked.
That blood-soaked face was now mere inches from Angron’s eyes.
“How many have entered the Bloody Sand Arena?” The Patriarch’s lips quivered.
Angron grabbed his left hand and slammed it onto the scanner.
The screen scrolled.
[House Talq Intake Records over the Years] A number flashed on the screen.
The crowd fell dead silent.
The Patriarch averted his eyes.
Angron forced his head down, making him look at the crowd below.
“Speak.” “Two hundred and thirty-seven thousand…” the Patriarch rasped.
Someone in the crowd let out a sob that sounded as if their heart had been sliced open.
Angron continued.
“How many were implanted with imitation Butcher’s Nails?” The screen flickered again.
The Patriarch’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Six thousand, nine hundred and forty.” “And the children?” The Patriarch shut his mouth.
Angron grabbed his right hand, which was still encased in its power armor gauntlet, and pried the fingers open, one by one.
The metal joints bent backwards, snapping the flesh-and-bone fingers inside.
The Patriarch shrieked.
Angron slammed his broken hand back onto the scanner.
The archives continued to unfurl.
[Beast Pen Juvenile Transfers] [Noble Manor Attendant Selections] [Experimental Age Range Compatibility] Sweat mixed with blood streamed down the Patriarch’s face.
“Enough…” Angron did not budge.
The Patriarch wheezed like a broken bellows.
“Eighty-one thousand.” This time, no one in the Bloody Sand Arena spoke.
Even the weeping was swallowed by the silence.
Angron stood up, his shadow falling over the Patriarch.
“You say you maintain order.” The Patriarch looked up, his eyes trembling, but he still tried to cling to his last shred of pride.
“Of course.” “Without us, these dregs would have torn each other apart for food, slaughtered each other.” “They are born low, born to need masters.” “You letting them stand up now is nothing but a lie.” Angron looked at him.
“Without you, would their lives be any worse?” The Patriarch opened and closed his mouth.
Countless eyes stared up at him from below.
Those names still hung on the screens above.
He wanted to say yes.
It should have been the easiest answer to spit out.
But the archives were still scrolling.
Separated.
Sold.
Augmented.
Executed.
Incinerated.
Every word leapt from House Talq’s system, stamped with his biometric key, bearing his family crest.
He couldn’t say it.
A faint laugh echoed somewhere in the Bloody Sand Arena.
No one knew where it came from, and it quickly faded.
The Patriarch’s face flushed crimson.
He thrashed violently.
“You will regret this!” “The High Riders’ Council will level this place!” “None of you escaped thralls will—” Angron stomped down.
The Patriarch’s voice was crushed back into his chest.
He wasn’t dead, but he could no longer scream.
Angron turned to look at the augmented thralls standing below.
They stood at the front of the crowd.
Some had crude, hastily stripped cables still dangling from the backs of their heads.
Others still had uncut stitches around the corners of their mouths.
Some couldn’t stand steady, held up by those beside them.
They stared at the Patriarch of House Talq.
Angron took a step back.
“He is yours.” No one went up immediately.
After a moment, the first augmented thrall stepped forward.
He walked very slowly, dragging one leg, his knee seemingly unresponsive.
Someone tried to support him, but he shook them off.
He climbed onto the execution platform, bending down to pick up a broken length of a neural whip.
The whip sputtered with light in his hand.
His hand was shaking violently.
Seeing the whip, the Patriarch of House Talq finally felt true terror.
“No…” The augmented thrall raised the whip handle.
The first blow slammed down on the platinum helmet.
*Clang!* The sound rang across the Bloody Sand Arena.
The second augmented thrall climbed up.
Then the third.
Angron turned and walked down the execution platform.
Behind him came the sound of metal being smashed open.
The Patriarch’s shrieks were sharp at first, then became muffled, and finally dissolved into the dull, wet thuds of flesh and armor being pulverized.
Angron walked below the control console.
Oenomaus leaned against a broken pillar, looking toward the execution platform.
The old man looked terrible, but his lips twitched slightly.
“You didn’t kill him with your own hands.” Angron looked at the archives still scrolling on the screens.
“He owes too many people.” The tech-slaves patched House Talq’s archives into the relay tower’s remaining broadcast network.
A moment later, every functioning screen in the lower levels of Desh’ea began to broadcast them.
House Talq’s registry.
Experimental records.
Nobles’ betting ledgers.
Execution archives.
Outside the Bloody Sand Arena, the gunfire in the streets changed once again.
It no longer sounded only from the direction of the High Riders’ private forces; many guns were now firing from behind them.
Smoke began to rise from the estates of House Talq.
A guard post’s banner was torn down and thrown into the fire.
More people poured out from the narrow alleys, carrying newly looted guns as they swarmed toward the Bloody Sand Arena.
On the console, the signals of House Talq’s private forces were graying out block by block.
Some were wiped out, some threw down their weapons, and some tried to retreat to the upper levels, only to find the lower streets already choked with crowds.
Angron looked at those signals.
He didn’t smile.
House Talq had fallen, but this was only one house.
The High Riders’ Council was still there, and the Sky Throne still hung overhead.
Just then, every screen suddenly flickered.
The Talq archives were forcibly cut off, replaced by a platinum Council crest that filled the screens.
The noise in the Bloody Sand Arena slowly died down.
A cold, harsh female voice came through the broadcast.
“Announcement from the Desh’ea High Rider Council.” “The classification of the Bloody Sand Arena incident has been changed.” “All participants are stripped of any possibility of amnesty.” “All accomplices will be treated as armed insurgents.” “All lower-level districts will enter a state of wartime purging.” After a brief pause, the final line fell.
“This is not a riot.” “This is war.” The screens went black.
From the far end of the streets came the synchronized roar of engines.
Low.
Dense.
Coming closer and closer.
Angron looked up.
Behind the dust outside the Bloody Sand Arena, the first wave of anti-gravity bikes glided into the lower district, followed by soldiers in light power armor marching in tight formation.
They were completely different from the Talq private forces.
There was no panic, no shouting.
Their muzzles were steady, their shield wall locked tight, and the red glow of melta weapons lit up in rows.
The slaves atop the high walls of the Bloody Sand Arena gripped their guns tighter.
Oenomaus murmured softly, “The Praetorian Guard.” Angron looked at the army entering the lower level.
The residual pain in the back of his head had not yet faded, and the fury in his chest sank down, heavy and dark.
He walked toward the main gate.
“Then let there be war.”