The Seventh Layer of Hell—Violence.
There was no sky here. No earth. Only a blood-hued void swirling in chaotic turbulence. Countless chains descended from the darkness above, each suspending a cage of iron.
Within every cage was a condemned soul. Their wailing mingled with the groaning of metal, creating an endless dirge of suffering.
This seventh layer was divided into three rings, each one reflecting the type of violence its sinners had committed.
The First Ring: Violence Against Oneself—
Here, the souls of the self-mutilated and the suicidal were imprisoned.
Their bodies endlessly healed, only to be sliced open again by invisible blades—caught in an eternal loop of self-destruction.
The Second Ring: Violence Against Others—
Murderers and sadists battled the phantoms of those they had wronged in life.
They were thrown into a ceaseless arena, forced to fight again and again, every death followed by resurrection, every revival met with vengeance.
The Third Ring: Violence Against Humanity—
Those who betrayed their kind, those who violated the Codex of Humanity, were nailed to vast brass gears. As the gears turned, their flesh was ground to pulp and reborn in purgatorial fire—an unending cycle of obliteration and return.
Above these rings loomed a black Tower of Judgment, guarded by Cursed Warriors—Astartes who had died but still served the Emperor in undeath.
Clad in decayed power armor, their eyes burned with golden soulflame. They were both jailers and executioners.
And now, on the outskirts of the seventh layer, a towering body slowly rose from the surface of a blood lake.
Its skin was pallid, corpse-like. Musclebound, covered in scars, and with a rusted butcher's nail still embedded at the base of its skull, twitching faintly.
This was Angron, Primarch of the World Eaters, from the Warhammer 40K universe.
?
Angron's eyes opened.
The once-raging infernos in his pupils were now hollow and lost.
He looked down at his hands. No armor. No weapons. Just bare flesh… and shackles around his wrists, chains tight and heavy.
"Where… is this?"
His voice rasped—unused for an age.
No answer came. Only the rattling of chains and the distant cries of the damned.
He rose, blood dripping from his body.
Looking around, he found himself standing on scorched wasteland. In the distance: bound souls, writhing in iron. Farther still: a massive, jet-black tower beneath a crimson sky.
"Hell," he muttered. Then smiled faintly. "I should have been here long ago."
Oddly, he felt at peace. For the first time in millennia, he was free of the stabbing agony in his head. No wrath, no torment. Silence.
But as his words fell, the ground began to quake.
Three Cursed Warriors emerged from the shadows, clad in battered power armor etched with sigils in ancient Chinese. Their cloaks, though tattered, floated still in windless air.
The lead warrior raised a hand.
Psychic chains slithered from the void and coiled around Angron's limbs like living serpents.
"Angron. Primarch. Traitor of the World Eaters." The voice was like steel grating against bone. "For violence against yourself, against others, and against humanity—you are sentenced to eternal punishment."
Angron didn't resist.
He only stared at them, a trace of scorn in his eyes.
"And who are you?"
"We were once Astartes," one answered. "Now, we are Judges."
"Hah…"
A hollow chuckle escaped Angron's lips.
"Then do it," he raised his shackled arms. "Let's see what you think judgment means."
They wasted no time.
With a wave of their hand, the scenery warped.
Angron suddenly stood on a battlefield.
It was Nuceria—his homeworld.
In his hand was a blood-soaked axe. Before him, peasants knelt in terror, pleading for their lives.
"Kill," whispered the Cursed Warrior. "This is your crime."
Angron's muscles tensed. The Butcher's Nails began to buzz faintly.
His fingers twitched. The axe raised—
And stopped.
"No."
A hoarse growl, trembling with restraint. "This… is not me."
The illusion shattered.
He was back on the scorched ground. The Cursed Warriors stared silently.
Angron looked past them, eyes locking on the looming Tower of Judgment. There was something unreadable in his expression.
"Take me to him," he said.
The Cursed Warriors gave no reply. As if they had expected this, the chains tightened and pulled the Primarch forward.
Each step he took echoed like breaking bone.
The earth was not earth, but a floor of shattered skulls. Beneath his tread, black blood wept from their sockets—Hell itself weeping at his approach.
They passed through the First Ring.
Souls who had taken their own lives writhed in self-inflicted torment.
A man in tattered civilian garb knelt, plunging a rusted dagger into his chest again and again. Each time he fell, the wound healed. And each time, he resumed the cycle.
Another hanged in the air, throat slashed by unseen hands. Blood fountained, yet he never died—only endured.
Angron frowned.
These torments came not from outside—but from within. The agony of eternal self-hatred.
"Father…?"
A rasp came from the dark.
Angron turned.
Nailed to an iron pillar was a flayed Astartes, half-ruined armor still bearing the World Eaters sigil.
"Is it… you?"
Chains clinked as the soul struggled.
The Cursed Warriors walked on. Angron paused.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Eighth Company… we… failed…"
Rou~—SPLAT!
A golden flaming spear shot from the shadows and impaled the Astartes' skull.
SCREEEEE—!!
The soul disintegrated in screams, becoming black smoke—only to reform again upon another pillar, and begin anew.
"No speech," a patrolling Cursed Warrior said coldly, retrieving the spear.
Angron showed no emotion.
Truth be told, he remembered little of his sons. He had been in a near-constant state of madness. When had he ever had time to know them?
He kept walking.
The next vision was more gruesome.
A floating coliseum of blood and iron loomed.
Inside, souls clashed endlessly, wielding the weapons they'd carried in life—fighting the phantoms of those they'd once murdered.
Each death followed by rebirth. Each scream deeper in despair.
And here, Angron saw more of his sons.
"Father!!!"
A World Eater burst from the pit, drenched in gore, chain-axe roaring.
"Take us back! Let us fight again!!"
Without a glance, a Cursed Warrior raised a hand.
CRACK!
A whip-like psychic chain lashed out, tearing the warrior's body into chunks of flesh.
The soul reformed elsewhere in the arena, and resumed its endless war.
"They were your sons," said the escorting Judge.
"Now, they are sinners."
Angron stared into the arena.
His sons butchered innocents. Were slaughtered by illusions. And resurrected only to do it again.
"They don't remember why they fight," the Judge said. "Only that they must."
Angron's eyes betrayed a flicker of grief—quickly replaced by cold detachment.
"Keep going," he muttered.
The final ring was the worst.
Enormous brass gears turned slowly. Nailed to them were heretic souls.
As the wheels ground forward, their flesh was pulverized, their screams rising in chorus. Then, flames restored them—and the cycle began anew.
"ANGRON!!!"
A mangled World Eater, his upper body crushed under a gear, screamed and laughed madly.
"Khorne has abandoned us! You saw it! YOU SAW IT!!"
The voice was cut short. A Judge's spear impaled his throat, pinning him in place. He would respawn. And scream again.
"Mad dogs," Angron growled, breathing heavy. The Nails were stirring in his skull again.
But the Judges said nothing, dragging him onward toward the tower.
At last, they reached it.
The base of the Tower of Judgment was made from broken power swords and chainblades, each one engraved with a name.
At the top, a lone figure stood, gazing down upon all of the seventh layer.
"We're here," said the Judge—and vanished into shadow.
Angron raised his eyes.
He knew who awaited him.
Not salvation. Not punishment.
Answers.
CLINK—CLINK—CLINK.
Chains echoed as he stepped through the gate.
Up the spiral staircase, every step made his muscles tighten. The Nails buzzed in his skull, warning of what was to come.
He thought he would find the golden figure on the throne—his "father," the one he had betrayed.
But halfway up, he saw something else.
Purple.
A graceful figure reclined against a shattered pillar. Silver hair like a waterfall. Regal robes. A faint, unreadable smile.
It was Fulgrim.
Those once-proud eyes now shimmered with a depth Angron didn't understand.
He froze, rage rising like bile.
His fists clenched. Bones popped.
He lunged—fist swinging toward Fulgrim's perfect face.
But it struck nothing.
Fulgrim dodged like a dancer, robe fluttering. His movements graceful to the point of mockery.
"You're still so direct, brother," he said.
His voice was low, musical—tinged with fatigue.
"What are you doing here?" Angron snarled. "This is the Tower of Judgment, not your den of indulgence."
Fulgrim chuckled, shaking his head.
"Judgment? No, Angron. There are no judges here. Only sinners."
He tapped a crack in the pillar beside him.
Angron's eyes burned. The Nails throbbed.
But Fulgrim… looked at him with pity.
"What are you saying?" Angron growled.
Fulgrim fell silent. Then said quietly:
"We were all deceived, brother.
You. Me. All of us.
Our rage, our agony, our fall… was someone else's move on the board."
He looked skyward, past the tower's roof—as though seeing beyond time.
"And here in Hell, we finally see the truth."
"…"
As the words settled, Angron felt the Butcher's Nails fall silent again.
He could think.
"Go, brother," Fulgrim's voice echoed.
Then his body dissipated like smoke. "Father is waiting."
Angron stood alone.
His fists still clenched, knuckles white—but now, no fury. No madness. Only… hesitation.
He looked up.
The top of the tower was bathed in golden light—too pure, too vast, like something unseeable yet omnipresent.
His steps were heavy.
Each one seemed to land on ghosts—of those he'd killed, those who'd fallen because of him, oaths he had betrayed.
All of it dragged at him.
But still, he climbed.
At the summit, there was no throne. No skulls.
Only silence.
And him.
The Emperor of Mankind—Samuel Young—stood at the tower's peak.
Black and gold armor gleamed under a blood-red sky. His eyes blazed like twin stars. Golden light pierced every shadow.
There was no anger. No cruelty. Only calm.
He looked upon his lost son.
And said, simply,
"Welcome, my child."
His voice was not thunder—but deep, soft. Tired.
Angron's throat tightened.
He wanted to scream. To rage. To accuse this man—his father—for so much abandonment.
But the Nails were quiet.
And for the first time in memory, Angron's soul knew peace.
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