Standing close in front of Samuel Young, Angron fell into an unprecedented daze. His muscles were taut, and his knuckles trembled unconsciously. He had no idea how to face the being before him. His reason told him that this was not the true "Father of Blood," yet the psychic resonance from the depths of his soul screamed out the word "Father." This contradictory pull made this incarnation of war, who once made the galaxy tremble, appear at a loss.
"Relax, child." Samuel Young's voice was like the morning light piercing through dark clouds, irresistibly gentle. The Human Emperor took a step forward. The patterns on his black-and-gold armor flowed with molten golden light, and as he raised a finger, a halo like the morning sun slowly unfurled. The glow was not as blindingly intense as the psychic power of the Emperor of Mankind from Angron's original universe. Instead, it was like the warmth of spring on the homeworld, enveloping Angron in the primal comfort of life itself.
"This is...?" Angron's question was cut off before it could fully form. The moment the golden light seeped into his skin, the sharp pain that had gnawed at his nerves for millennia abruptly ceased, like a storm-ravaged sea suddenly frozen in time. Trembling, he reached behind his head— the decayed Butcher's Nails were disintegrating within the psychic field, the rusted metal crumbling into fine sand that slipped through his fingers.
Even more astounding changes followed. His gnarled muscular lines gradually softened, the permanent angry furrows between his brows began to smooth out, and when the last thread of golden light dissipated, the reflection in the shimmering mirror-like surface was a face so refined and unfamiliar that even Angron himself could not recognize it. He stared blankly at the nail fragments falling from his palm and, in a daze, seemed to hear the rain of Nuceria. The version of him that once taught slave children to identify herbs in the vineyard, the one who would bandage wounded animals, the Angron whose soul had not yet been soaked in blood—he had never truly died.
His Adam's apple bobbed, and he tasted the salty liquid at the corner of his lips—this body still remembered how to cry. When his gaze returned to Samuel Young, a sharp contrast suddenly stabbed into his heart. The Emperor of his original universe would only dissect his value with a scalpel-like gaze, assessing him like a weapon with a developing crack; but the ruler before him maintained a reachable closeness, and in those golden eyes surged a compassion and care Angron had only dared to imagine in his most absurd dreams.
"Why?" Angron's hoarse voice startled even himself—it was his true voice, untwisted by the Butcher's Nails. "You could've remade a more powerful weapon." The cape of the black-and-gold armor moved without wind, and star-dust-like psychic energy flowed within. Samuel Young gently tapped a finger to Angron's chest, a golden rune flashing momentarily. "A master who only calculates gains and losses when a child is hurt is called a slave owner," he said. "I never needed the Primarch of the Twelfth Legion. I needed the Angron who, during harvest festivals, secretly handed out wheat cakes to the serfs."
That sentence was like lightning cleaving through the chaos of memory. The "biological father" of before merely recorded data on the Butcher's Nails with cold detachment, but now, Samuel Young was tending to the scars on his soul as if carefully dusting off a family crest handed down through generations. Both emperors, from two universes, were equally divine in stature, but one saw his sons as precise gears, while the other remembered the names engraved on every gear.
Angron suddenly dropped to one knee. In this gesture was no longer the submission of his Legion days, but a far older reverence—humanity's original awe for the stars. "What should I call you?"
Samuel Young smiled, and that smile briefly cleared the bloody fog of Hell's seventh layer. "Child, there's no need to rush into giving something back." A massive hand fell upon the Primarch's dark hair, and Angron smelled something like the scent of earth after rain. "Take your time—whether you want to call me 'Father' or something else."
Angron froze. That simple sentence was like a blunt blade slowly and heavily slicing through the millennia of congealed anger and pain. He had never imagined that a "Human Emperor" would speak to him like that—not issuing orders, not passing judgment. In his original universe, his father had never seen him as a "son." From the moment he was forcibly taken from Nuceria, he had been nothing but a weapon—a tool implanted with Butcher's Nails, doomed to lose control. No one cared about his pain, no one understood his struggle, and his madness was merely treated as a variable to be controlled—a pathetic, useless madman.
But now, Samuel Young's hand fell lightly and firmly upon his head, silently telling him: "You no longer need to kill to numb your pain." A hard-to-describe emotion surged in his chest, like millennia of repressed grievance, rage, and unwillingness finally found their outlet. Angron's throat tightened, his eyes burned, and in the end, he lowered his head, his forehead resting on Samuel Young's knee armor, his shoulders trembling slightly. He did not cry out loud, but Samuel Young knew that this warrior, once tortured into madness, had finally found himself again.
In fact, before being forced to cross over and become the "Human Emperor," Samuel Young had always considered Angron's story in *Warhammer 40K* as one of the deepest regrets in his heart. Angron was meant to be a healer. This Primarch was born with a rare capacity for empathy—able to understand others' pain and willing to reach out a hand. But fate was cruel. The abuse by slave masters, the corrosion of the Butcher's Nails, the indifference of the Emperor—layer upon layer of suffering twisted him into a creature of rage. He was no longer the boy who would bandage wounds, but a beast that only roared and tore things apart.
But what if someone had reached out to him back then? That thought had lingered in Samuel Young's mind for a long time. And now, seeing Angron finally shedding his rage and pain, Samuel Young unknowingly found peace.
Though there was also an Angron in the main universe's Imperium, that version of the Primarch had never endured injustice or suffering since childhood, having grown up in warmth and care. Naturally, he couldn't compare to the Primarch of the World Eaters before him. In contrast, this Angron—
After a brief silence, Angron finally looked up, his voice low but no longer hoarse: "Father… Fulgrim, why is he here?"
At that, Samuel Young's gaze turned to the distance, as if piercing through the layers of hellish mist. "He, like you, committed monstrous crimes. Countless lives perished because of him." Samuel's voice was calm but carried unquestionable authority. "So he must serve his sentence."
"A sentence?" Angron frowned.
"Yes." Samuel nodded. "To be precise, he's 'working.'"
Working???
Angron's face showed a trace of confusion. Samuel chuckled. "Fulgrim is now the warden of the second layer of Hell—Lust."
Angron was stunned for a moment, then burst into open mockery: "Ha! That really suits him." After all, Fulgrim, who had fallen into the embrace of Slaanesh, understood the corrosiveness of desire better than anyone. Putting Fulgrim in charge of managing the souls condemned for lust—was nothing short of a tailor-made punishment.
But soon, Angron's expression darkened again. Through the whispers of Chaos, demons, and the escaped sons of the Emperor into the Warp, he had learned that there existed counterparts to the Primarchs in the main universe. And that the "him" in the other universe had never suffered the agony of the Butcher's Nails. That other Angron must have lived easily and joyfully, right?
However, Samuel Young's gaze was deep, as if he had already seen through his "son's" thoughts. "Are you jealous?"
Angron didn't reply, but the tense line of his jaw betrayed him. Samuel sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Angron, fate is never fair. But you must understand—your pain is not meaningless. Your struggle, your rage, your redemption… all of that created the person you are now." He paused, then added, "And that world's Angron will never understand your resilience."
Angron was silent for a long time, then finally nodded slowly.
Perhaps, this was the answer.
"Then…" Angron took a deep breath, his gaze resolute as he looked at Samuel Young. "What should I do now?"
Samuel smiled but said nothing. He raised a hand, and the blood-red sky of Hell split open with a crack. Brilliant starlight poured through. The golden eyes of the Emperor narrowed slightly, his gaze sweeping across the scorched, bloody wasteland of the seventh layer of Hell. The sounds of chains grinding, the wails of souls, and the unending slaughter—all permeated with primal violence.
"Angron," he said, his voice deep and commanding. "From today on, the seventh layer—Violence—is under your jurisdiction."
At those words, Angron's pupils slightly contracted. "Me?"
"You understand violence better than anyone," Samuel said slowly. "You were once its slave. Now, you will be its master."
"Then..." Angron tentatively asked, "Can I manage it in my own way?"
"Of course," Samuel nodded. "Those who committed acts of brutal violence will suffer even more painful torment so that the living may understand—brutality will ultimately devour itself."
Angron clenched his fists, his knuckles cracking. "I'll make them regret it." Countless punishments had already appeared in his mind—the pain he had once endured, the violence he had inflicted upon others—he would now return them with even greater cruelty upon these sinful souls.
Just then, a familiar figure emerged from the blood mist. Dressed in a sharp Imperial Navy uniform, the World Eaters emblem still clearly visible on her shoulder plates, the cold face fully revealed caused Angron's pupils to shrink sharply.
"Lorata?"
The female captain's soul emitted a faint psychic glow. The memories of her fusion with the flagship made her presence especially unique. Her eyes no longer bore the look of the living but instead held a serenity that came from seeing through life and death.
"My lord Primarch," her raspy voice seemed to echo through countless battlefields. "Looks like we've arrived where we're supposed to be."
Angron's lips involuntarily curled upward—for the first time in thousands of years, a smile from the heart. But that joy was quickly interrupted by Samuel Young's cold words.
"You are all criminals." The Emperor's golden eyes showed no trace of mercy. "Lorata Salin, your fleet destroyed countless worlds, and countless lives perished because of you."
The female captain dropped to one knee, right hand over her chest. "I accept judgment, Your Majesty." Lorata Salin had in fact been "listening in" on Samuel Young's conversation with their Primarch, and she understood that this Emperor was not the cold god-king of their original universe. His display of paternal care toward their Primarch filled her with genuine joy and a willingness to obey all his commands.
"Your flagship consumed innumerable souls," Samuel continued. "Now, it's your soul's turn to face eternal punishment."
Hearing this, Angron seemed to want to plead for his subordinate, but to his surprise, Lorata looked up with a relieved smile. "That's fair," she said, turning to Angron. "At least here, we can still fight side by side."
Samuel nodded slightly. "Very well. Lorata Salin, you shall serve as Angron's adjutant and assist him in managing the seventh layer—Violence."
In the blood-colored sky, chains began to tremble violently, and countless sinful souls wailed in anguish. Looking at his once-trusted subordinate, Angron suddenly understood something. This wasn't salvation, but a harsher punishment—forcing them to torture other souls with their own hands, eternally remembering their sins through violence.
Having figured it out, Angron also felt a sense of relief. He summoned two chain axes wreathed in blood fire from the void and grinned. "Ready, old friend?"
Lorata stood up. "Always at your service, my lord Primarch. Let's teach these sinners what true violence is."
The seventh layer of Hell trembled beneath their feet, as if welcoming the arrival of its new wardens.
And the moment Samuel Young's will withdrew from the realm of Hell and returned to the main universe, his body on the throne trembled slightly. His eyes, ablaze with golden light, slowly opened. In their starry depths, the psychic glow of the Meditation Hall shimmered.
He exhaled gently, feeling a bit of relief. Having handed over the authority of the seventh layer—Violence—to Angron, the long-standing mental burden on his psyche finally lightened somewhat. The light in the hall flickered with his breath, and the runes hanging from the dome glowed like stars, flickering in and out.
Samuel Young raised his hand, traced a line through the air with a fingertip, and a hard-light holographic screen instantly unfolded before the throne. Streams of bluish data cascaded down like waterfalls. Displayed on the screen was the live combat footage of the combined fleet of the Word Bearers, Night Lords, and Grey Knights. Warships arrayed in the Coruscant star system, with artillery and psychic radiance weaving a net of destruction, gradually tightened the noose on the forces of Chaos. Battle reports from two Primarchs scrolled coldly along the screen's edge: "Orbital bombardment ready," "Psychic matrix deployment complete," "Exterminatus authorization confirmed," and so on.
At the heart of the battlefield, the figure of Lorgar floated in the void, vast psychic energy gathering around her. It would be a blaze strong enough to incinerate the roots of Chaos corruption—a purification of the entire planet.
Seeing this, Samuel Young lightly tapped the throne's armrest with a finger, eyes deep in thought. At last, he could loosen his nerves a little. After all, the "Tyrant" of Hell now had a successor, and the main source of corruption in the *Star Wars* universe would soon be severed. However, the fleeing World Eaters vessels still remained a significant threat.
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