“Then we fight our way out.” The words fell, but no one in the control booth answered.
Outside, the alarms continued to blare, one atop another, as if waking the very bones of the Bloody Sand Arena.
Angron stepped out of the control booth.
Down in the corridor, the chaos following the dropped collars had yet to settle.
Those fresh from the cages crowded together.
Some knelt on the ground, touching their bare necks; others picked up fallen collars and smashed them against the walls; still others stripped blades from guards’ corpses, standing bewildered once they had them.
Even more flooded toward the exits.
They assumed that once the doors opened, they were supposed to run.
People caged for too long knew only one primary instinct: put distance between themselves and the bars.
Karrus stood at the foot of the stairs, raising a shock-spear, screaming at the top of his lungs.
“Stop crowding!” “You’re fucking stepping on your own people!” Few listened.
The Bloody Sand Arena was vast, and there were too many newly freed captives.
Fear, excitement, and rage mingled into a choke thicker than toxic gas.
Angron watched them from above.
These people could kill.
Many were exceptionally good at it.
But right now, they were not an army.
They were a pack of wounded beasts freshly released from iron cages.
Empty-handed, starving, bearing old scars, with only a single thought left in their heads: run.
If they rushed out like this and slammed into the High Riders’ guns, cannons, and skimmers, how many would survive?
Three out of ten?
Or just one?
The fire in Angron’s chest slowly sank.
*Damn it.* He had almost walked down the old path again.
The original Angron had led his brothers out into the wastes and ridges, only to be starved, surrounded, and ground down to nothing.
He could push through heavy fire alone.
The people below could not.
Rage could smash open doors.
But to keep people alive, smashing doors wasn’t enough.
Angron looked down at the collar fragment in his hand, iron filings still smeared with blood.
He cast the fragment aside and turned to the tech-slave.
The slight man had been following him, clutching an auxiliary control panel torn from the main console.
His shoulders were hunched, but his eyes no longer darted about erratically.
“Does the Bloody Sand Arena have an armory?” The tech-slave froze for a second, then nodded rapidly.
“Yes.
Lower west level.” “Lead the way.” “There’s a purge lock there,” the tech-slave swallowed hard.
“In an uprising, it burns the storehouse.” Angron looked at him.
The tech-slave’s voice dropped.
“By now…
it’s probably already activated.” Angron didn’t curse.
There was no time.
He turned and headed for the lower west level.
Karrus saw him heading away from the exit and caught up.
“Aren’t we fighting our way out?” “We get weapons first.” Karrus blinked.
Angron cast a glance over the crowd below.
“Going out empty-handed is sending them to die.” Karrus followed his gaze down.
A young arena slave was clutching a short gun taken from a guard, pointing the muzzle right at his own people.
Beside him, someone trying to snatch a blade nearly shoved another newly risen slave off the stairs.
The hot blood in Karrus’s face chilled a notch.
He spat out a curse.
“I hold this spot?” “Hold it.” Angron kept moving.
“Anyone tries to steal a blade from our own, break his hands.” Karrus grinned fiercely.
“That, I can do.” The path to the lower west level was narrow.
The further down they went, the thicker the smell of burning became.
Red lights flashed along the walls, accompanied by a synthesized mechanical voice repeatedly announcing the armory purge sequence.
A few squads of guards tried to block the corridor.
Angron didn’t waste time wrangling with them.
The first team hid around a corner.
The moment their muzzles poked out, Angron tore a heavy pipe from the wall and hurled it; half the corridor caved in.
The second team burst out from a maintenance door.
Before they could shout a word, Angron smashed directly into them.
Power armor, short guns, and bones shattered against the wall together.
The survivors turned and fled.
Angron didn’t pursue.
He only walked toward the armory.
Only those in his way died.
Those who weren’t would die soon enough anyway.
The area outside the armory doors was already glowing red with heat.
Heavy alloy doors were tightly shut, the crest of House Talq illuminated by the firelight.
A golden raptor stepping on a slave’s neck.
Angron stared at the crest for half a second.
*Quite a choice of emblem.* The tech-slave lunged for the secondary console slot, tapping frantically.
His face immediately turned pale.
“The purge fires are already lit.” “Can they be turned off?” “Yes, but it requires supervisor clearance.” “Where is the supervisor?” The tech-slave looked up at the door.
Through the thick door came voices—shouting, heavy lifting, and the metallic crash of falling weapon racks.
Angron understood instantly.
They weren’t defending the armory.
They were looting whatever good gear they could carry before incinerating the rest.
He reached out and gripped the gap between the doors.
The metal was scorching hot, making the blood on his palm sizzle and smoke immediately.
He drove his fingers into the edge, sinking his shoulders into position.
His first heave produced a screeching whine from the frame.
The second cracked the alloy tracks.
On the third, he ripped the entire door clean off its rails.
A blast of searing heat poured out, fire reflecting in his eyes.
The armory was a roaring furnace.
Rows of weapon racks were melting.
Chainaxes, short guns, shields, executioner armor, and combat spears—once hung neatly—were now crackling inside the flames.
Several armory guards were retreating.
A fat supervisor clutched a black container, backed by two personal guards.
The grips of several energy pistols protruded from the container.
Angron ducked as he stepped inside.
The fat supervisor turned, saw him, and froze.
The next instant, he shrieked, “Fire!” The guards opened fire.
Lasers and bolts slammed into Angron’s chest, shoulders, and arms.
He forged ahead through the gunfire.
One step.
Two steps.
On the third, he grabbed the nearest weapon rack and flipped it, hurling half a row of unburnt spears into the guards.
The guards were pinned into the flames.
The fat supervisor turned to flee.
Angron reached out, grabbed the back of his neck, dragged him back, and slammed him against the clearance console.
“Kill the fire.” The fat supervisor’s lips trembled violently.
“I’m House Talq’s armorer!
I have ransom, I can—” Angron shoved his face closer to the red-hot edge of the control console.
Before his flesh even touched the metal, the supervisor wept.
“I’ll turn it off!
I’ll turn it off!” He slapped his palm onto the authorization pad.
The flames died down section by section, leaving only the soft crackle of cooling metal in the armory.
Angron released his grip.
The supervisor collapsed into a heap.
As he tried to crawl away, an old gladiator who had followed them stepped firmly onto his back.
Angron didn’t look back.
His eyes swept across the weapon racks.
Many items hung here—all familiar things.
Chainaxes for slaves to slaughter slaves.
Short guns for guards to shoot slaves.
Shields so the nobles’ favorite gladiators could last a few extra matches.
Armor for executioner slaves to wear so their deaths looked a bit grander.
Now, these weapons were finally pointing in a different direction.
Angron walked over and grabbed a chainaxe.
The noble crest was still stamped on the haft.
He dragged his thumb across it, marring the crest beyond recognition.
Then he tossed the chainaxe to the young arena slave standing at the doorway.
The youth caught it out of instinct, the weight buckling his knees slightly.
He looked up at Angron as if unable to believe such a weapon was now in his hands.
Angron picked up a shield and threw it to a second man.
“Front row takes shields.” He grabbed a short gun, inspected it, and threw it to an old gladiator with steady hands.
“Anyone who can shoot takes a gun.” Another chainaxe.
“Anyone who knows how to hack takes this.” He didn’t say much, nor did he offer inspiring rhetoric.
Weapon after weapon left the racks and fell into the slaves’ hands.
The clatter of metal rang out through the storehouse.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
It sounded far harder and colder than the sound of dropped collars earlier.
A dropped collar meant they were no longer leashed.
A weapon in hand meant they could finally bite back.
Angron watched them.
The look in their eyes was changing.
Before, it was aimless chaos.
Now, it was gaining focus.
Someone clutched a shield to his chest, knuckles turning white.
Someone raised a short gun, then lowered it quickly, afraid of pointing it at his own people.
Someone else stood staring down at his chainaxe for a long moment before letting out a sudden laugh.
Not a roar of laughter.
Low.
Raspy.
As if a sound long suppressed in the depth of his throat had finally leaked out.
The tech-slave opened an auxiliary compartment.
“There are medical supplies here too.” Angron walked over.
Inside were stanching foam, combat injectors, collapsible armor, and several crates of emergency rations.
When he saw the rations, the flame in his chest flickered gently.
He had almost forgotten this.
People didn’t live on rage alone.
They bled, they starved, they grew tired.
He could keep slaughtering for days without food.
The people below could not.
“Take it all,” Angron said.
“Medicine to the wounded.
Food to those who can stand first.” The tech-slave nodded and turned to shout for help.
Angron didn’t correct him.
Let him shout.
Let those who had just lost their collars carry the goods themselves.
Freedom wasn’t something to stand around waiting for others to hand out.
Freedom had to be reached for with one’s own hands.
When the first batch of weapons was brought back to the lower level of the Bloody Sand Arena, the crowd fell quiet for a moment.
Karrus stood on high ground, hauling up a guy who had tried to snatch a blade and pinning his hand to the wall.
Seeing the weapons arrive, he grinned wide.
“Line up!” Nobody moved.
Karrus bellowed, “Line up if you want to live!
Crowd forward if you want to die!” This time, people moved.
First the veteran gladiators.
Then the mining slaves.
Then those fresh from the beast pens.
It was still chaotic, but lines began to form within the chaos.
Shields in front.
Spears in back.
Short guns to those with steady hands.
Wounded dragged over to receive medicine.
Angron stood at the armory entrance, taking it all in.
This was hardly an army.
Not even close.
But at least they were no longer a horde of empty-handed corpses walking into gun barrels.
That was enough.
Next step: fight their way out.
Just then, a heavy thud echoed from afar.
Not from inside the arena—from outside.
Then came the tech-slave’s panicked, squeaking voice from the direction of the control booth: “There’s a convoy outside the main entrance!” “House Talq’s suppression squad!” Angron looked up.
A projection unfolded on the wall.
Outside the main gate of the Bloody Sand Arena, several rows of cold energy signatures were approaching.
Repulsor vehicles.
Light power armor.
Emplaced machine guns.
And a hover gunship towing a massive black cannon barrel.
A stranger’s voice rang through the comms channel.
There was no anger in it—only arrogance.
“Slaves of the arena, get on your knees.” “After ten breaths, anyone not kneeling dies.” The Bloody Sand Arena fell deadly quiet.
The people who had just received weapons turned to look at Angron.
Angron looked toward the main gate as well.
He could feel their gazes on him—many of them, conflicted, fearful, yet burning with fire.
He suddenly smiled.
*That’s more like it.* Now that they had weapons, they needed something to test them on.
Angron picked up an undistributed heavy shield from nearby and hefted it.
Too light.
He tossed it casually to an old gladiator behind him.
Then he strode toward the main gate.
“Open the gate.”