The moment the gate was torn open, yellowish-green toxic gas surged out.
Angron stood at the doorway and did not step back.
The gas burrowed into his nostrils like a tiny rasp scraping across his throat.
A searing heat filled his lungs; he coughed, and blood-flecked foam hit the ground, fizzing with tiny bubbles.
Potent.
Two breaths would bring an ordinary human to their knees.
War-slaves might last a few extra breaths, but only a few.
He could handle it.
They couldn’t.
Angron raised his hands, gripped the edges of the torn gate, and pried them further apart.
The metal groaned as it bent outward.
The toxic mist thinned slightly.
The cage block was revealed.
Rows of iron cages were stacked high along the walls and pillars, resembling a honeycomb constructed out of human flesh.
There were no weeping refugees inside these cages.
Only war-slaves.
Scars, severed fingers, iron masks, butcher’s nails, wrists worn raw by chains.
Some were still coughing up blood.
Others had wrapped heavy chains around their fists and were hammering away at the locks.
One slave seized a guard passing near the bars and bit straight through his throat.
Blood spurted out; as the guard shrieked and thrashed, another hand snatched the keys from his belt.
Ruthless enough.
Just as it should be.
The faint discomfort in Angron’s chest loosened a bit.
He had worried earlier that he would have to lead a bunch of frail, sick, and elderly refugees out of the amphitheater’s underground.
If that were the case, how had the Angron of the original timeline fought his way out?
Now the answer was right before his eyes.
These people were not sheep waiting to be rescued.
They were blades locked in cages.
It was just that the High Riders had forced those blades to point at one another.
Now, it was time for the cage doors to open.
Angron kept tearing through the gates.
The second.
The third.
The fourth.
The iron bars bent beneath his hands like damp twigs.
More and more war-slaves flooded out of the cages.
Some snatched guns.
Some grabbed keys.
Others pinned guards to the ground, sinking their teeth into the soft flesh beneath their visors.
The toxic gas filled with coughing, spurting blood, rattling chains, and harsh curses.
Chaos.
Far too chaotic.
The freshly freed war-slaves were like a pack of wolves starved for far too long.
Angron could understand it.
If it were him locked in a cage waiting to die, the first thing he would want to do upon release would be to tear out the throat of the nearest person.
The problem was, they couldn’t afford to bite wildly like this right now.
Angron unclasped his hands.
The fire in his chest still burned.
He desperately wanted to charge forward.
He truly did.
He wanted to smash through the upper conduits, drag the nobles down from the grandstands one by one, and let them taste what it felt like to have a chain choked around their necks.
But there were still cages lining the perimeter.
The poison gas was still spewing.
Several war-slaves were already collapsed on the ground, blood bubbling in their throats.
Charging up first would feel great.
But everyone behind him would die.
That wouldn’t do.
He hadn’t come here to indulge in a satisfying slaughter.
He was here to rewrite their end.
“Karrus!” Angron roared.
Deep within the toxic haze, a figure staggered into view.
Karrus was taller than most war-slaves, his left shoulder slumped, half his face smeared with blood, dragging an electrified lance he had seized from a guard.
Seeing Angron, he began to grin.
Halfway through, the grin faded.
His gaze swept from Angron’s dark green skin to his broader shoulders and back, then to the scorched wound at the back of his head.
“You look…” He gasped for breath twice.
“…fucking terrifying right now.” A thought flickered through Angron’s mind.
That was a mild assessment.
A normal person seeing him like this would probably just scream “monster.” He didn’t say it out loud.
He only asked, “Where is Oenomaus?” The trace of a smile vanished from Karrus’s face.
“The deepest level.” “Alive?” “Alive.” Karrus spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm.
“They’re turning him into an executioner slave.” Several surrounding war-slaves froze for a brief moment upon hearing those words.
Oenomaus was no ordinary old man.
He was the man who had taught many of them how to hold a blade for the first time.
He was the one who taught them not to rely solely on biting with their teeth.
He was old and scarred, yet even standing at the edge of the bloody sand, he could command silence from the young pit-fighters.
The High Riders wanted to turn him into an executioner slave.
They wanted to shatter the very last piece of humanity these slaves possessed.
Angron’s fingers slowly clenched into a fist.
His knuckles cracked.
Save him first.
Then settle the score.
“Lead the way.” Karrus nodded.
Just as he was about to turn, a roar erupted from the far side of the cage block.
Two war-slaves were fighting over a chainaxe.
A burly gladiator held the axe handle, while a one-eyed war-slave gripped the chain tightly.
Beside them lay a guard’s corpse, keys still hanging from its belt.
The chainaxe revved to life.
Teeth hummed and whined.
The onlookers didn’t try to pull them apart.
Having just crawled out of their cages, poison and fury still burned in their minds; everyone wanted to secure a deadly weapon first.
Angron walked over.
The chainaxe swung down.
He reached out and caught it barehanded.
The whirring teeth bit into his palm.
Blood sprayed.
Both war-slaves froze instantly.
Angron glared at the burly gladiator.
“Swing it again.” The gladiator’s throat bobbed.
“I…” “Swing it at your own brother again.” Angron closed his fist.
The high-speed chainaxe ground to a dead halt, its teeth shrieking against his palm in a harsh metallic scream.
“And I will twist you and this axe into one piece.” Silence fell over the surroundings.
The toxic haze continued to billow.
But no one moved a muscle.
The burly gladiator slowly let go of the handle.
Angron tossed the chainaxe back into his arms.
“Use it on the guards.” He then turned his gaze to the one-eyed war-slave.
“The keys.” The one-eyed war-slave bent down and picked up the keys.
“Open the cages.” Neither uttered another word.
Karrus immediately stepped in, bellowing at the top of his raspy voice: “You all heard him!
Those who can pick locks, take the keys!
Those who know how to shoot, grab the guns!
The severely wounded guard the doors!
Anyone who cuts down his own brother for a weapon gets his legs torn off by me first!” The words were crude.
But the war-slaves understood them perfectly.
Order began to take shape in the cage block.
A few slaves rushed to smash the poison gas pipes.
Several who knew firearms began stripping magazines from guard corpses.
The heavily wounded were dragged to the doorway, leaning against the iron plates, breathing heavily with daggers clutched tight in their hands.
Someone was coughing up blood while distributing iron chains to the newly opened cages.
Watching these people move into action, the tension in Angron’s chest eased slightly.
It was still nowhere near enough.
Chaotic.
Disorganized.
Every single one had a temper worse than the last.
But at least their blades were starting to point outward.
This task was far more troublesome than he had anticipated.
Far more troublesome than smashing an iron guard with a single punch.
Far more troublesome than charging onto the grandstands and tearing the nobles apart.
Yet this was precisely the most critical part.
If these people could only blindly follow him forward, they would still end up dying before gun turrets, poison gas, and blast doors.
He couldn’t just be a bigger axe.
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than heavy footsteps echoed from deep within the cage block.
Thump.
Thump.
Chains dragged along the floor.
Blades scraped against metal.
Karrus’s expression changed.
“Iron-Jaws.” Angron turned his head.
Through the toxic mist, six massive figures emerged.
Black armor.
Iron jaws.
Red controllers.
Each was taller than an ordinary war-slave, dragging heavy cleavers, thick black neural cables plugged into the back of their necks.
Executioner slaves.
Monstrosities cybernetically modified by the High Riders out of former champions and disobedient gladiators.
The one at the front wore a cracked old brass medallion on his chest.
Angron recognized him.
Baro.
Three years ago, Baro had slain two cyber-beasts with a broken spear.
That day, Karrus had lost half a month’s wine ration and cursed well into the night.
Now, Baro’s eyes were clouded, his iron jaw dripping blood, the controller pulsing with red light.
Karrus swore under his breath.
“They really turned him into one.” Several war-slaves raised their weapons.
Angron raised his hand.
“Fall back.” Nobody moved.
They wanted to fight.
They also wanted to save him.
Some had bloodshot eyes.
Angron turned back.
“Fall back.” This time, the war-slaves slowly retreated.
Baro charged forward.
The heavy cleaver swung down.
The blade bit into Angron’s shoulder, cutting through dark green flesh and catching on the bone.
Pain.
Severe pain.
Angron clenched his teeth.
He almost smashed Baro’s head in with a single punch.
No.
This was Baro.
Not a High Rider.
He reached out and grabbed the back of the blade, wrapping his other hand around the back of Baro’s neck to grip the red controller.
A beast-like rasp echoed from inside Baro’s iron jaw.
His eyes were clouded.
Yet deep inside, a tiny spark still stirred.
Angron stared at that tiny spark.
“Enough.” He yanked with force.
Blood and shattered wiring spurted out together.
Baro jerked violently, dropping his heavy cleaver.
His iron jaw opened slightly, squeezing out a thin, airy raspy whisper.
“Ang…” He collapsed to his knees.
Angron supported his body and lowered him gently to the ground.
“Live if you can.” The second executioner slave lunged from the side.
Angron pivoted, grabbed his wrist, and snapped it.
He ripped out the controller.
The third.
The fourth.
Not every one of them could be saved.
One controller was buried too deep; ripping it out shattered half his neck.
Before falling, he grabbed Angron’s ankle.
His clouded eyes turned briefly clear for a split second.
Angron looked down at him.
The man couldn’t speak.
But Angron understood.
He closed the man’s eyes.
The cage block fell silent for a moment.
The war-slaves, whose eyes had been filled with murderous intent moments ago, watched this scene as something inside them shifted.
They had seen Angron kill.
They had seen him rip fighting beasts in half upon the bloody sand.
But they had rarely seen him gently lay down a slave turned into a monster by the High Riders.
Karrus gripped his electric lance, his voice raspy.
“They won’t even let us die on our own terms.” Angron stood up.
The wound on his shoulder was closing.
Fresh meat pushed out from the gash left by the blade.
“That’s why we fight our way out.” Deeper within, behind a heavy black door, came the soft clinking of chains.
Then an old voice spoke.
Raspy.
Weak.
Yet still as hard as rock.
“Angron…” The war-slaves in the cage block looked up simultaneously.
Oenomaus.
Angron walked toward the door.
White light flared on the door.
A melta cannon charging.
The High Riders hadn’t given up yet.
Angron didn’t slow his stride.
Karrus tried to follow, but Angron held up a hand to stop him.
“Open the rest of the cages.” Karrus gritted his teeth.
“By yourself?” Angron looked toward the door.
The white light grew brighter.
“It’s enough.” A melta beam erupted from the gap in the door, slamming into his chest.
Flesh blackened and scorched.
Bone was exposed.
Angron stepped back half a pace.
Only half a pace.
Green light surged at the edges of the wound, new tissue sprouting from the scorched flesh.
He pressed both hands against the heavy door.
From behind the door, Oenomaus’s voice drifted out intermittently.
“Don’t…
just smash doors…” Angron paused mid-motion.
Even like this.
The old man was still scolding him.
He suddenly let out a faint laugh.
His chest still hurt.
The back of his head still hurt.
But that smile was genuine.
“I know.” He wedged his fingers into the seam of the door.
Behind him, Karrus turned and roared: “Don’t just stand there staring!
Open the cages!
Grab the guns!
Smash the gas pipes!
When he tears that door open, we charge!” The war-slaves moved into action.
Noise erupted across the cage block once more.
Angron exerted his arms.
The heavy black door began to bend.
The melta cannon behind the door flared bright again.
He did not step back.
This time, he was not charging into destiny alone.
Behind him, the entire war-slave cage block moved as one.