Ten days ago, Angron experienced his first "game."
They called it The Demon's Tears.
He saw the demons, but where were the tears?
Angron didn't know. Perhaps they appeared only on the day they died.
"Why did you come here?" a gladiator suddenly asked the boy. "You're clearly not a slave. I heard your father is the favored pet of a high-born knight, cherished like a jewel. With that kind of background, why would you risk your life entering the arena?"
Angron glanced at the man's scar-covered chest, his brass knuckles gleaming in the dim light.
He answered calmly, "Because you're all here."
"Why?" the gladiator asked, confusion clouding his eyes.
Some nobles did indeed come for the thrill of slaughter, to butcher slaves in the arena for amusement.
But Angron was different. He had rescued hundreds of slaves and even convinced the same High Knight to buy them all.
Most of those slaves were old, weak, or crippled, unfit to fight, worthless as playthings, destined only to die pointlessly in the brutal games of The Demon's Tears.
What value could they possibly have to him?
Angron looked at the man steadily. "Tell me, how am I any different from you?"
The gladiator hesitated, then muttered, "We're slaves."
Angron shook his head, his tone carrying a quiet power that brooked no argument.
"No. We are all human. We bleed, we hurt, we grieve, and we laugh. We live."
Behind them, the armed machine-servitors drove the slaves forward, the tips of their shock batons crackling with blue-white arcs of electricity.
Anyone who resisted even slightly was rewarded with a jolt that left them twitching helplessly on the ground.
Angron followed the others into a vast domed hall.
The stone walls were old and stained, torchlight flickering across them in waves of dim gold.
In the center stood a long table, scarred, bloodstained, and littered with broken weapons: rusted swords, splintered shields, and torn leather armor.
Each piece reeked of rust and decay, whispering of its former owner's fate.
The veterans pounced on the weapons like starving wolves.
Calloused hands snatched up axes and tridents, the metal glinting faintly under the firelight.
They shoved and cursed, armor plates clanging as they hurriedly armed themselves.
Some even slashed at rivals' arms with their weapon tips, a silent promise of death.
The gladiator from before pulled himself free from the chaos, clutching a dagger in one hand and a double-bladed axe in the other.
He turned to Angron, breathing hard, his scarred chest rising and falling.
"Here," he said, thrusting the axe handle into Angron's palm. "It might not fit you well, but it's better than nothing. When the gates open, stick with me. Don't die too fast."
The other gladiators froze, eyes narrowing like blades aimed at them both.
A silent tension filled the air, heavy, suffocating.
Then one of the guards shouted, and the great doors creaked open.
Sunlight speared through the darkness, stabbing into the tunnel like burning knives.
And with it came the roar.
"ANGRON! ANGRON! ANGRON!"
The crowd's thunderous chant shook the arena.
The slaves were driven out into the blinding light as tens of thousands of voices merged into a frenzy.
"Run!" the gladiator yelled.
The moment sunlight touched sand, the killing began.
The gladiators surged forward like a pack of rabid beasts, dozens of blades slicing arcs through the blazing air.
They were no mere men; the blood of beasts ran in their veins, kin to the savage beastmen of the wilds.
That blood made them despised, yet gifted them with monstrous strength.
Unarmed, they could crush a noble knight with a single blow.
But Angron was not merely a boy; he was a Primarch.
A dagger flashed toward his back, and he sidestepped like lightning, his wooden staff leaving a blur in its wake.
Bang!
The attacker flew three meters through the air, carving a trench into the red sand.
Angron's strike was perfectly measured, strong enough to disable, not to kill.
Another strike, bang! No one could withstand three hits from him.
Gladiators dropped one after another, flung aside like broken dolls, their bodies hitting the sand with dull, echoing thuds.
Only the one who had given him the axe was still standing.
The man spat blood and glared at Angron. "Why?"
Why come here?
Why spare them?
Why refuse to kill?
They were just slaves. Why would he fight for them?
Angron sidestepped another desperate swing.
The axe whistled past, missing by inches.
His staff struck once, precisely.
Crack!
The gladiator collapsed, limp, the axe clattering onto the sand.
"Because power belongs to me," Angron said. "And with power comes responsibility, one that I choose to bear."
His words rang out like molten steel poured from a furnace.
He raised his gaze toward the hovering Eye of the Maggot, the arena's surveillance drone.
A shrill, mocking laugh echoed from its speakers.
"The game isn't over! Only one can walk out alive this time! There's no loophole for you now!"
"No," Angron said calmly.
The announcer laughed harder, a sound like sawblades grinding bone.
"Our hero wants to play savior again?"
He hated Angron, this boy who defied every rule.
Even Claudia couldn't protect him this time, not after buying everyone's survival again.
She'd lose everything, and he wanted to see it.
'That damned woman, beautiful, proud, who gave herself to a lowborn pet instead of the knights who deserved her!'
'She acted so cold in public, but on her back, she screamed like a whore!'
"Listen here, 'hero'! Rules are rules! Either you break their necks yourself, or I let the sun bake them into corpses!"
Angron slowly looked up.
"Rules are rules," he repeated. "But who made them?"
His voice boomed like thunder.
"Was it you? The audience? No, I won't accept your rules. Only the people can!"
He pointed first at the fallen gladiators, then to the teeming masses above.
"Tell me, do you want them to die… or to live?"
The arena fell utterly silent.
Even the sound of breathing seemed loud.
Tens of thousands of hearts pounded as one, and for the first time, the question carried weight.
Why had they come here?
Because life was unbearable. Because they had nothing left.
In the rotting slums, even anger was a luxury.
Only in the arena, watching blood spill, could they feel alive for a moment.
Seeing others suffer made them forget their own chains.
But now Angron had given them another choice.
Why should they cower beneath rules written by the knights?
Why couldn't they make their own?
As before, a hoarse voice broke the silence:
"LET HIM LIVE!"
"Shut up!" the announcer roared.
"LET HIM LIVE! LET HIM LIVE!"
More voices joined, a few, then dozens, then thousands.
Faces once numb now flushed red as veins bulged on necks.
The chant became a storm.
"LET HIM LIVE!"
The announcer's drone shrieked, sparking wildly.
"Shut up, you filthy scum!"
But the chant only grew louder, unstoppable.
Men, women, children all screamed as one.
Their roar drowned everything.
The joy of seeing a knight's authority crumble was greater than any bloodsport.
"Stop this, you fool!" the announcer shrieked.
Another Eye of the Maggot drone swooped down, but this time, it was intercepted.
Not by Claudia's unit, but by another knight's.
"Silence!" a commanding voice boomed.
"Only the champion decides the fate of the defeated! Tell us, Angron, will they die… or live?"
All eyes turned to him.
"Let them be free," Angron said.
"FREE!" the crowd echoed, erupting into a thunderous roar.
Perhaps they didn't truly care about the gladiators' freedom, but the thrill of defiance was intoxicating.
Every shout was a slap in the knights' faces.
And wasn't that more satisfying than watching slaves kill each other?
The gladiators looked around in confusion. The crowd was cheering for them. Why? They weren't the champions.
"The match is over," a high knight declared coldly.
"Today's champion, Angron. Cheer for him!"
"How much did you win this time?" Caelan asked, watching Claudia toy with a gold coin.
She smiled, covering her mouth. "Still one to a thousand odds. Those arrogant fools never learn."
"And the slaves? I bought them again, same manner as before."
"Thank you, Sister Claudia," Angron said politely.
"Call me Mother," she snapped playfully, pinching his cheeks until his face deformed.
Caelan muttered, "First time I've seen a woman ask to be called old."
Claudia tilted her head, eyes gleaming like a spoiled Persian cat. "It's different. I want to be his mother."
Caelan sighed. "Maybe I'll introduce you to Neoth. Not sure he'd like you, though."
The old man had lived for tens of thousands of years; he'd seen every kind of woman, even the courtesans of Commorragh. He lived for humanity's resurgence; Claudia likely wouldn't impress him.
"I don't want him," she purred, clutching Caelan's arm. "I only want you. I don't believe you're heartless."
"Doesn't matter what you believe. There's nothing left in me."
"Then I'll find out myself," she whispered, eyes curving like a cat that had tasted cream.
'Men, they all deny it,' she thought.
'Even when hard, they're stubborn.'
'Even when soft, they're still stubborn.'
"Big brother, look!"
Mira came bounding into Caelan's arms, holding out her hand. A small light-dragon coiled from her palm, shimmering with prismatic hues.
"Mira, that's amazing," Caelan said, patting her head gently.
He always stayed near Angron, but when absent, Enor looked after the girl, another psyker, though a quiet one.
Claudia smiled faintly and brushed a hand against Mira's shoulder, subtly pushing her half a step away. The gesture was tender, but absolute.
"It seems Enor's been teaching you well," Claudia said, glancing lazily toward the maid.
In that instant, Enor froze, breath caught, body rigid, like prey under a serpent's gaze.
"From now on," Claudia said softly, lifting the maid's chin with a jeweled finger, "Enor will take care of you. She's yours now."
"Really?" Mira blinked, wide-eyed. She'd been planning to ask Caelan first, but now Claudia seemed to know even before she spoke.
Claudia chuckled, pinching Enor's face lightly. "Of course. Ask Angron, I never lie."
Angron nodded. Claudia loved to play games, but she didn't lie.
Claudia patted Enor's cheek and began to hum an old tune. The maid grew paler by the second.
Claudia didn't need to use power; her will alone was enough. Every tremble, every hesitant step, was laid bare to her like an open book.
To her, their little tricks were childish games, not even worth exposing.
She leaned close to Caelan, her voice soft as silk.
"The knights' patience won't last. They won't let Angron keep breaking their rules. Next match, it won't be gladiators, it'll be beasts and monsters."
There could only be one victor. And whichever side won, the crowd would be entertained.
If Angron held back again, mercy would only make him a target. The audience's empathy ended where humanity did.
"My goal is already achieved," Angron said. "The gladiators will rise, but they can't stand alone. We need the people with us."
He had learned from Caelan the fate of another version of himself, one who failed.
The failure wasn't caused by the Butcher's Nails. It was the people.
They had never stood with him. His gladiators alone could not fight the world.
He hadn't even known who the true enemy was, blinded by hatred, seeing all others as foes.
Even without the Nails, his rebellion was doomed.
They were two sides of the same coin, but this Angron would not become him.
Because this Angron had Caelan. The other did not.
That day, for the first time, the common people defied the knights' authority.
Even if the spark was faint, even if their cries would soon be silenced, the fire had been lit.
And those flames would one day spread across the stars.
They were all Angrons now, broken, furious, waiting in silence.
Waiting for a Horus to rise and lead them, to tear open the endless night.