Aatrox's scarlet gaze swept across the battlefield; the combat efficiency of his fellow Darkin was staggering. The daemon legions and fallen World Eaters brought by Angron had been slaughtered almost to the last. Only scattered pockets of resistance remained, soon to be completely submerged.
Aatrox felt it was enough; this warm-up should come to an end. Within the war-body of Sion he inhabited, that unyielding soul transmitted the same desire—the end!
Angron was completely oblivious to what was happening around him. The Butcher's Nails screamed frantically in his brain, the sound drowning out everything else. His world consisted only of the opponent before him and the pure pleasure of battle. What did the defeat of his subordinates matter to him! As long as he could keep fighting! Killing until the heavens grew dark!
He paused briefly, gathering strength, preparing to pounce once more on this opponent who finally let him fight to his heart's content.
However, Aatrox no longer intended to keep him company. With a flicker of thought, the Faith Power exchange interface unfolded silently. An ability he had redeemed long ago, specifically designed to counter these immortal monsters, was activated.
[Grievous Wounds] activated. Effect: Reduces target's healing capability by 90%!
Aatrox had already upgraded this to max level. Invisible power instantly clung to the Greatsword in his hand.
As Angron clashed with Aatrox again, hacking violently at him, Aatrox thrust his blade into Angron's body. Upon pulling it out, Angron suddenly stiffened. Something was wrong!
The wounds newly carved into his body were no longer healing at high speed as before. The rate at which his flesh wriggled was far too slow! At the edges of the wounds, a layer of sickly green, stagnant energy seemed to cling, stubbornly preventing his body from repairing itself.
'What's going on?' Angron subconsciously tore off the piece of flesh that refused to heal. But the new surface still recovered at an agonizingly slow pace. A foreign sensation surfaced from the depths of his consciousness, which was usually filled with rage. That was... panic? Had the blessings of Chaos failed?
No! Impossible! He was the Champion of Khorne!
As the difficult-to-heal scars on his body multiplied, fear began to penetrate the paralysis of the Butcher's Nails. Something other than combat finally squeezed into Angron's mind. Danger! Lethal danger! He was afraid. For the first time in tens of thousands of years, pure terror overwhelmed his endless rage.
Escape! He had to escape!
He spun around, attempting to tear open a portal to flee back to the Warp. However, what he saw were several pairs of eyes also radiating terrifying auras.
Kayn—or rather, the more powerful entity Rhaast within him—shouldered his massive Darkin scythe, blocking the path of retreat. Varus drew his Darkin bow, arrows condensing with the energy of annihilation, locking onto his head from afar. Naafiri, the Darkin who appeared to be composed of a pack of hounds, silently sealed off another direction with her "pack." In the eyes of every hound shimmered the same cruelty.
The retreat was completely sealed; he was a trapped beast in a cage!
Angron's blood-red eyes swept over the circle. The fellow made of a pack of dogs looked the weakest! 'It's you!'
He roared, bursting with power, and slammed violently toward Naafiri's direction. As long as he reached that spot!
However, when his chainaxe hacked toward one of the hounds, the dog dodged nimbly. Simultaneously, it bit back into his leg, the wound bringing a tearing, agonizing pain. What made him even more desperate was that this wound also refused to heal! Naafiri was far stronger than he had imagined!
The circle tightened. Despair, like a cold tide, submerged Angron; all his resistance was in vain.
Aatrox charged forward once more. This time, his sword did not swing wildly but cut with precision. Severing arms, splitting leg bones. Every attack left wounds that could not be recovered. The other Darkin joined this hunt. Rhaast's scythe was like a pendulum of death, Varus's arrows carried curses, and Naafiri's pack tore at the daemon's flesh.
Angron was butchered into pieces. Finally, nothing remained but a head embedded with Butcher's Nails, still roaring in futile fury.
Aatrox grabbed the head. On Angron's hideous face, only pure rage and resentment remained. Aatrox casually opened a spatial rift and tossed Angron's head inside like a piece of trash.
Angron's head passed through the portal and tumbled several times across a cold floor. Eventually, it hit a pair of power boots covered in runes and came to a stop.
"Cowards! Scum!" Angron's remaining head roared loudly, rage rolling through his mind like physical lava. They actually ganged up on him! Those fellows didn't deserve to be called warriors! They had no honor!
He selectively forgot the pathetic moment when he turned to run. Pure rage almost caused his remaining skull to burst. The tumbling stopped, and the auras of those Darkin he hated and feared vanished. Replacing them were several currents of Warp energy—familiar, yet tinged with distortion and despair. This feeling... his brothers?
He struggled to drive his jaw muscles, pressing his scarred tongue against the rough ground. His head, like a heavy stone, turned with extreme effort. After relentless striving, his vision was able to tilt upward.
The first thing to enter his view was scarlet armor and that single eye—Magnus. Beside him was a figure in decaying gray power armor, radiating a nauseating plague atmosphere—Mortarion. There was another, wearing dark armor covered in blasphemous scriptures, surrounded by a false aura of spiritual light—Lorgar.
His head had come to rest at Magnus's feet.
"Magnus!" Angron croaked, desperate to grab this life-saving straw. "Quick! Pick up my head! I want to see what on earth is going on!"
Magnus's massive figure remained motionless. The moment of silence was like eternal torment. Finally, just as Angron was about to lose it, Magnus moved. He leaned down, his massive hand grabbing Angron's hair, and lifted the bloody head.
Angron was able to see the surrounding situation clearly. He was impatient to ask, to roar, to know exactly what had happened.
"My brothers, what's wrong with you? Why are you all gathered here and not speaking?"
Seeing no one answer, he wanted to continue questioning, but his next sound caught in his throat. Magnus, holding his head, slowly turned around.
A figure appeared in Angron's field of vision. It was a man wearing golden power armor. His face was hidden beneath a helmet, his expression unreadable. But Angron could feel the pressure radiating from that armor—as dazzling as the sun, yet as cold as the abyss.
That power... it was the Emperor!
The moment he saw that figure, Angron understood why his brothers were so silent. Why the surroundings were filled with an atmosphere of despair. Fear instantly flooded his body and mind. He opened his mouth but found he could make no sound.
His former rage, his former battle-intent—at this moment, all turned into endless despair.
And finally, into silence.