The lift clambered upward.
Chains strained, gears meshed.
The entire platform juddered rhythmically like an iron coffin rising from deep underground.
Angron stood at the very front.
He glanced down at his hands.
Bigger than when he had first awakened.
Heavier, too.
The original Angron had already been a Primarch, over three meters tall, standing among a crowd like a walking war monument.
But now was different.
He was at least four and a half meters tall, perhaps nearing five.
The iron pillars flanking the platform were originally designed for modified beasts, yet standing between them, his shoulders nearly scraped the sides.
Banner was a mortal who turned into a giant.
He was a giant growing further into a dark green mountain.
The thought flickered through his mind, and Angron bared his teeth in a harsh smirk.
The pain was still there.
Throbbing at the back of his head.
Burning in his chest.
The charred wound blasted by the melta cannon hadn’t fully healed, fresh flesh pushing outward inch by inch from within.
But the pain was no longer a chain.
It was like firewood thrown into the furnace of his chest.
Burning hotter and hotter.
Making him clearer and clearer.
The Butcher’s Nails wanted to turn him into a mad dog.
What the Hulk Bloodline gave him was not madness.
It was strength.
It was rage.
It was the right to hurl that rage at those who deserved it.
Karrus stood to his rear right, one shoulder slumping, power lance still gripped in hand.
He stared at Angron for a moment, then suddenly chuckled.
“With your size now, they might have to open the Gates of Bloody Sand a little wider.” Angron turned his head.
Karrus wiped blood from the corner of his mouth.
“I’m serious.” He looked up, listening to the cheers above, his eyes gradually turning ruthless.
“Don’t get stuck in the doorway.” A few pit slaves nearby chuckled in low voices.
The laughter was brief and raspy, like wolves that had just crawled out of cages, catching their first scent of blood outside.
Oenomaus was supported by two veteran gladiators.
The old man’s face was terrifyingly pale, a short blade still gripped tightly in his hand.
“Once the gates open, don’t scatter.” His voice wasn’t high, but everyone nearby listened.
“Iron plates up front.” “Guns in the rear.” “If you see turrets, smash them first.” A one-eyed pit slave asked raspily, “What about the nobles?” Oenomaus raised his eyes.
“Nobles run slower than turrets.” The one-eyed slave froze for a second, then grinned.
The words worked better than an order.
The frantic murderous urge surging across the platform stabilized slightly.
Angron listened to the cheers overhead.
Drums.
Screams.
The drawn-out calls from metal loudspeakers.
“From the Northern Mine Pit…
the twin-blade slave—” “—will challenge three hungry spinebeasts!” Applause erupted across the Bloody Sand Arena.
People clinked glasses.
People whistled.
People yelled, “Open the gate!” They were waiting for slaves to be torn apart.
Waiting for blood to splatter across the sand.
Waiting to toss down coins and laughter once a man could no longer get up.
In his past life, watching through a screen, he had merely felt it was dark enough, Warhammer enough.
Now, standing behind the door listening to their laughter, all he wanted was to tear down the entire grandstand.
The platform jolted violently.
They had reached the top.
Outside the Gates of Bloody Sand, the announcer’s voice turned even more feverish.
“Honored guests, open your eyes wide!” “Today’s spinebeasts haven’t fed for three whole days!” “While our twin-blade slave has only one eye left, one good leg, and—” The lock disengaged.
Mechanical arms pulled the Gates of Bloody Sand open.
White light sliced through the gap.
The announcer dragged out his voice: “—and the heart of a slave that refuses to bow to fate!” Roars of laughter erupted from the stands.
The gate swung open.
The announcer stood on a floating high platform, his face smeared with gold powder, an amplifying scepter in hand, waiting to hurl his final line to the entire arena.
Then he saw who was behind the gate.
The words choked in his throat.
The Bloody Sand Arena didn’t go quiet immediately.
The nobles in the front rows were still laughing.
A young noble in a crimson silk robe slammed coins onto a betting board.
“I bet the spinebeasts disembowel him in three breaths.” Someone beside him chuckled lazily.
“Three breaths?
You think too highly of trash from the mine pits.” Another noblewoman held a wine goblet, asking through a beaded curtain, “Any new tricks today?
The one last time who kept crawling with half his face bitten off was quite lovely.” The announcer held his scepter, gold powder sparkling under the lights.
His mouth hung open.
Not half a word could escape.
Because extending from behind the Gates of Bloody Sand was first a dark green hand.
The hand gripped the edge of the gate, five fingers driving straight into the heavy metal.
The gate had already opened wide enough for fighting beasts to pass.
Yet that hand pried outward.
A screech of wrenching metal drowned out the laughter from the stands.
The doorframe deformed.
Iron shavings rained down.
Angron stooped and stepped out from behind the gate.
This time, the laughter dropped a notch.
His foot stepped onto the bloody sand.
The wet, crimson sand sank into deep pits.
Broken chains dragged across the ground.
*Clang.* *Clang.* *Clang.* He was colossal.
A dark green giant standing over four and a half meters tall, shoulders and back as broad as a wall.
Blood, machine oil, and charred meat clung to his body, while the wound left by the melta cannon on his chest was still writhing and healing.
The announcer finally squeezed out a squeak of a voice.
“This…
this is not on the schedule…” No one listened to the rest.
Because behind Angron, more figures emerged.
Karrus.
Iron-masked pit slaves.
One-eyed mine pit slaves.
Gladiators whose eyes were bloodshot from poison mist.
Iron plates torn from cage doors were held out front, while carbines, power lances, chainaxes, and broken blades peeked through the gaps.
One.
Ten.
Fifty.
More.
The Gates of Bloody Sand were like a tear in the underworld, vomiting forth every blade the High Riders had kept locked away for years.
The announcer’s face turned dead pale.
There was no next match behind the gate.
The entire cage sector had crawled out.
The stands finally fell silent.
But it wasn’t fear—at least not yet.
Many nobles simply hadn’t processed what they were seeing.
The young noble in crimson silk froze for a few breaths, then grew even more thrilled.
“Angron?” “They let Angron out?” He snatched up a handful of gold coins, eyes glowing.
“Change the bets!
I bet he can kill fifty!” An older noble beside him eyed him coldly.
“Fool.” The young noble turned back in annoyance.
The older noble stared at the pit slaves behind Angron, his expression dampening inch by inch.
“Who freed those cage sector slaves?” The question finally woke many from their stupor.
Some looked down at the guards’ seating area near the arena floor.
It was mostly empty.
Some noticed the short carbines held by the slaves.
Some saw a gladiator with a ring of High Rider keys hanging from his waist.
Some froze with wine goblets at their lips, liquid dripping past the rim and staining expensive robes.
Up in the high Platinum Stands, the High Rider who had fled the surgery room stared fixedly at Angron.
His face looked worse than anyone else’s.
Others only saw an accident.
He knew where the catastrophe had crawled out from.
Angron saw him too.
The fire in his chest blazed higher.
He didn’t suppress it.
Rage didn’t need suppressing.
It needed a direction.
He bent down and picked up a thick beast-taming chain from the bloody sand.
It had once been used to drag modified beasts.
Now wrapped around his hand, it resembled a black whip.
The announcer finally snapped back to reality, raising his scepter and shrieking, “Initiate suppression protocols!” “These are rogue assets!” “Raise the shields!
Fire the tur—” Angron snapped his wrist.
The beast-taming chain whistled through the air.
The floating announcer’s stage was shattered instantly in mid-air.
The anti-grav unit exploded.
Gold powder, wooden splinters, loudspeaker parts, and half a scepter blasted into the sky.
The announcer’s shrieks cut off abruptly.
He plunged from on high, crashing into the bloody sand.
Not dead.
He scrambled up, gold powder mixed with blood on his face, whimpering tiny, fractured squeaks.
Dead silence enveloped the arena.
Angron looked down at him.
“Continue.” The announcer’s lips quivered.
Not a single word could come out.
Behind Angron, Karrus burst out laughing.