The heavy black door bent under Angron’s grip.
The melta cannon behind the door flared again.
White light gleamed through the gaps, piercingly bright.
Karrus bellowed, “Get down!” The pit slaves who had just burst from their iron cages scattered immediately.
Some dove to the ground, some raised iron plates torn from cage doors, and others dragged poisoned companions toward the base of the walls.
The next instant, the melta beam blasted through the gaps and slammed squarely into Angron’s chest.
Flesh charred black.
Bone showed through.
The metallic floor beneath his feet glowed red-hot from the searing heat, and his feet slid back half a foot.
Just half a foot.
Angron glanced down at his chest.
The pain sent a throb through his temples.
Good news: he wasn’t dead.
Bad news: it hurt like hell.
Even worse, if this thing hit Karrus or the others, they wouldn’t even be left with a chance to curse.
Fury flared instantly.
Angron wanted to drag the gunman behind the door out and crush him into a ball.
His fingers had already dug into the gap in the door.
The charred flesh over his wound cracked open, and fresh muscle surged outward from within.
Bulging dark green veins swelled one after another like red-hot iron wires.
He gritted his teeth.
Now was not the time to vent.
Open the door first.
Save the people first.
The cannon behind the door was still charging.
Angron gave it no third chance.
With a wrench of his arms— *Crack—* The heavy door split down the middle.
He dragged the locking frame out along with the wall itself; the melta cannon’s mount tilted, and before its muzzle could fully light up, it was crushed and snapped by the warping door plates.
*Boom!* The entire door was torn wide open.
Behind it lay an execution modification room.
The air was thick with the stench of chemicals, blood, and scorched skin.
Bone saws, neural cables, iron jaws, and unfinished controllers hung on the walls.
On several operating tables lay half-finished executioner slaves; some still had chests heaving, while others stared with open, lifeless eyes.
Suspended from the central iron rack was Oenomaus.
The old man was bare-chested.
Cuts covered his chest, shoulders, and back.
Several thick, black neural cables were nailed into the back of his neck, while an iron jaw apparatus hung just below, not yet clamped shut.
He was very old.
And very thin.
He was a far cry from the veteran gladiator in Angron’s memories who could beat young pit slaves till they rolled across the floor with a wooden staff.
Yet those eyes remained open.
Clouded and exhausted, but unbowed.
Angron walked inside.
A chirurgeon cowered beside the control panel, fingers having just brushed a red button.
Angron grabbed the ruined mount of the melta cannon off the floor and hurled it backhanded.
The console collapsed.
So did the chirurgeon.
Another chirurgeon flopped to his knees, throwing up his hands.
“Don’t kill me!
He’s still alive!
The neural cables can’t be yanked out by force—I can remove them!
I can keep him alive!” Karrus barged in, his power lance already raised.
“Step aside, I’ll give him a quick death.” Angron raised a hand to block him.
Karrus froze, his eyes terrifyingly bloodshot.
“You trust him?” “I don’t.” Angron looked down at the kneeling chirurgeon.
The man trembled as if he had been skinned alive.
“But he’s useful.” The chirurgeon nodded frantically.
“I am!
I’m useful!” Angron looked down, his shadow enveloping the chirurgeon completely.
“Remove them.” The chirurgeon scrambled up.
His legs buckled, causing him to stumble, but he scrambled right back up.
Several pit slaves surrounded him, the tips of their blades pressed against his neck, lower back, and wrists.
If his fingers slowed down for even a second, Karrus would likely dismantle him first.
Oenomaus opened his eyes, and when he saw Angron, the corner of his mouth twitched.
“You…” His voice sounded like it had been ground out of gravel.
“You got even uglier.” Karrus opened his mouth.
A few pit slaves froze as well.
Angron looked down at himself.
Dark green skin.
Covered in blood and machine oil.
Chest still smoking.
Indeed, hard to call presentable.
The tension in Angron’s chest eased slightly.
The old man could still hurl insults.
Then things hadn’t reached the absolute worst yet.
“Bear with it.” Oenomaus wheezed.
“Obviously.” The chirurgeon began removing the first neural cable.
As the hook backed out of the nape of his neck, Oenomaus shuddered violently, his teeth grinding audibly.
Blood poured down his spine.
Karrus took a step forward.
Oenomaus cut his eyes sideways.
“Hold it right there.” Karrus stopped dead.
“You’re in this state and you’re still ordering me around?” “Go any further and you’ll block the light.” Karrus cursed under his breath and stepped back half a pace.
The second neural cable was extracted.
Then the third.
Angron reached out to support Oenomaus’s body, keeping the iron frame from continuing to tear at his wounds.
His hands were huge.
Even larger now.
As he cradled the old man, he had to hold back his strength.
It was a strange feeling.
A moment ago he could tear Iron Guards apart with his bare hands, yet now he feared that a slight slip of pressure from his fingers would crush Oenomaus to pieces.
Damn it.
The Hulk Bloodline could let him rip doors apart, but it couldn’t teach him how to hold a dying man.
The chirurgeon pulled out the final neural cable.
Oenomaus’s body went limp.
Angron caught him and laid the old man down on a relatively clean iron table nearby.
Just as the chirurgeon exhaled in relief, Karrus slammed a fist into his face.
The chirurgeon crumpled to the floor.
Angron looked over.
Karrus shook out his hand.
“Didn’t kill him.” Lying on the iron table, Oenomaus wheezed like a broken bellow.
“How’s…
it outside?” Karrus grinned, trying to laugh.
“Plenty of cages unlocked, plenty of guards dead.
Everyone still remembers how to kill.” “That’s not enough.” Karrus’s grin froze.
Oenomaus looked toward Angron.
“They’ll charge upward.” “They’ll grab weapons.” “They’ll hunt down the nobles.” “And then they’ll be torn apart by turrets and poison gas.” Every sentence the old man spoke brought a swell of blood to his throat.
“You break doors fast.” “But saving people isn’t just about breaking doors.” Angron didn’t speak right away.
The words struck home.
Of course he wanted to charge up.
The Platinum Stands.
The High Rider.
That disgustingly clean face.
If he just charged up, dragged him out from behind the glass, slammed him into the floor, and smashed him to pulp strike by strike…
That would feel amazing.
Truly amazing.
But outside, cages were still locked.
Poison gas was still spewing.
Half of the freed pit slaves were coughing up blood, while the other half were itching to rush out to their deaths.
This wasn’t a boss fight.
This was saving a group of teammates who had just crawled out of cages with minds filled with nothing but biting someone.
Angron cracked his knuckles.
*Crack, crack.* Annoying.
But it had to be done.
He turned and walked out of the modification room.
The cage sector outside was already in complete chaos.
Some were unlocking cages.
Some were smashing poison gas pipes.
Some were dragging guards’ corpses into corners to strip their armor.
Others raised freshly stolen short carbines and charged toward the upper tunnels.
Angron grabbed the wreckage of an executioner slave and slammed it into the center of the cage sector.
*Boom!* All noise halted for a split second.
The pit slaves looked toward him.
Standing in the poison mist, his chest’s melta wound not yet fully healed as raw flesh pulled back inch by inch, Angron spoke.
His voice wasn’t loud, but it quelled the entire arena.
“Unlock the cages first.” He pointed at the iron cages that still held prisoners.
“Smash the gas pipes.” He pointed to the weapons on the ground.
“Give guns to those who know how to use them.” “Put iron plates up front.” “The severely wounded guard the doors.” A pit slave covered in facial brands roared, “The nobles are up there!” Angron looked at him.
“The nobles aren’t going anywhere.” “I want to kill them now!” Angron walked over.
That slave was tall, muscles bulging, half an iron collar still around his neck.
But in front of Angron, he was still a head shorter.
Angron shoved a heavy axe into his arms.
“If you want to kill them, survive to do it.” “Open the cages first.” The slave’s chest heaved violently.
A few breaths later, he let out a low curse, turned around, and shattered a nearby lock with one swing of the axe.
Karrus caught on immediately, stepping up onto a high ledge and bellowing, “Squads of ten!” “Iron plates in front!” “Anyone who can shoot, with me!” “The rest of you unlock cages, smash gas pipes, and drag out anyone still breathing!” “Anyone who charges up on their own, I’ll break his legs myself!” Curses worked better than orders.
The cage sector moved once more.
This time, it was no longer wild snapping.
People distributed guns.
Some tore down cage doors for shields.
Others dragged out gladiators passed out from poison, slapping their faces, pouring water down their throats, and shoving weapons into their hands.
The young pit slave who had been held down by Angron cradled a carbine, guarding a row of newly opened cages.
His eyes were still red, but he no longer charged upward recklessly.
Oenomaus was helped out by two veteran gladiators.
He could barely stand.
Yet the moment he appeared, many fell quiet instinctively.
The old man scanned the cage sector, his voice raspy.
“Still recognize me?” No one answered.
Many lowered their heads.
Oenomaus gave a cold sneer.
“Then stop acting like beasts just let out of a pit.” “Beasts bite whatever flesh is next to them.” “Men know who they ought to bite.” The words were spoken softly, yet they proved more effective than Karrus’s roar.
Several pit slaves who had been squabbling over weapons paused.
Angron looked at Oenomaus.
Suddenly, he understood why the original Angron cared so deeply for this old man.
He didn’t just teach people how to swing a blade.
He could make these men, turned into beasts by the High Riders, remember that they were human.
A roar suddenly sounded from above the cage sector.
Tracks opened.
Over a dozen small automated turrets slid out, their red targeting dots sweeping across the crowd of pit slaves.
The High Riders had finally stopped sending guards down to die.
They were starting to butcher the cage sector.
“Get down!” Before Karrus’s shout even faded, the turrets opened fire.
A storm of bullets swept across the iron gantries.
Two pit slaves were knocked down.
Angron charged out.
He grabbed two cage doors, holding them up in front like twin shields.
Explosive rounds pounded the cage doors, hammering the iron plates inward.
Several rounds slipped through the gaps, digging into his shoulders and abdomen.
He didn’t stop.
He pushed forward against the hail of fire.
The turret tracks began to retract.
Too late.
Angron leaped into the air.
Swinging the cage doors with both hands, he slammed them down on the front row of turrets.
*Boom!* Three turrets exploded simultaneously.
The remaining turrets whirled toward him, concentrating their fire on his chest.
Flesh blasted open.
Wounds sealed shut.
Blasted open again.
Sealed shut again.
With a low growl, Angron grabbed the track mountings and ripped them straight out of the wall.
Turrets, cables, supports, and half the wall collapsed together.
Sparks crashed down into the poison mist.
The pit slaves stared at him, their eyes changed.
They had seen Angron’s strength before—on the bloody sand.
Today, he stood before them, taking the cannon fire in their stead.
Karrus was the first to react, raising his power lance and roaring, “Open the cages!” “Don’t let him take that beating for nothing!” The cage sector erupted completely.
Chains dragged across metal floorboards.
Gunfire echoed wildly.
Gas pipes were shattered.
Cage doors were ripped, smashed, and battered open one after another.
Standing beneath the collapsed turret tracks, Angron raised his head toward the space above.
Up there lay the lift leading to the Bloody Sand Arena.
Distant cheers drifted down.
The matches were still underway up there.
The nobles were still waiting to watch blood spilled.
Angron wiped the blood from his face.
Good.
Then up they would go.
Let them see clearly.
Karrus supported Oenomaus as they came up behind him.
The old man’s face was terrifyingly pale, yet his head remained held high.
“Don’t rush to kill.” Angron tilted his head sideways.
Oenomaus wheezed, “First let them know…
that nobles can feel fear too.” Angron looked toward the lift.
He suppressed the fire raging in his chest once more.
Fine.
No killing yet.
Open the doors first.
He walked toward the lift.
The pit slaves parted automatically.
This time, it wasn’t one man charging ahead alone.
Hundreds of pit slaves who had just crawled from their cages, wielding swords, guns, iron plates, and broken chains, followed in his wake.
The lift began to ascend.
Above them, the Gates of Bloody Sand grew closer and closer.