Bab 95: Broken Chains
Angron POV:
The smell of burning marble and scorched flesh filled my lungs – familiar companions in this dance of death. Desh'ea burns. My brothers and sisters in chains dance free among its flames, and I watch warriors claiming to be my blood tear through our oppressors like paper.
Kharn. The name echoes in my mind each time I watch him move. My... son? The concept should feel foreign, yet something deep within my blood recognizes truth in it. His movements are poetry written in violence, each swing of his blade precise yet savage. A Kin-Guard's las-round meant for one of my gladiator kin splashes harmlessly against his shield – technology beyond anything I've seen on this cursed world.
"Secure that corridor!" His voice carries authority born of experience, not birthright. "No Kin-Guard leaves alive! Protect the freed ones!"
Protect the freed ones. Not 'slaves.' Not 'chattel.' He sees them as I do – as people. Warriors. Family.
Oenomaus fights beside me, his eyes wide as he watches these giants in midnight blue and bone white tear through our former masters. "Angron" he breathes, "they fight like you. They rage like you."
The Warhounds. My sons. The word still tastes strange on my tongue, but their actions speak louder than any claim of kinship. They fight not just to kill, but to shield. Every movement calculated to protect my gladiator brothers and sisters. Our people.
And then there are the others – the Liberty Eagles, led by this 'Captain Cavill.' My... nephews? They move differently, more controlled, but no less deadly. Their precision reminds me of the games of strategy I would play with Oenomaus between matches, plotting how to survive with minimal losses.
"Eastern quarter secured, Lord Angron," Cavill reports, his voice carrying easily over the battle din. "We've established safe corridors for your people. No civilian casualties. The High Riders' forces are in complete disarray."
Lord Angron. Not slave. Not gladiator. Not property. The title should rankle – it's too close to 'High Rider' – but there's something different in how they say it. Respect earned, not demanded.
I watch a group of children, still wearing their slave collars, being gently guided by one of the Warhounds. The giant warrior has removed his helmet, revealing a face marked with scars that could have been earned in any fighting pit. He speaks softly to them, checking for injuries, helping them stay calm amid the chaos.
These are not the actions of another breed of oppressor.
"Thirty-one hours," Oenomaus remarks beside me, watching Desh'ea burn. "Thirty-one hours and the impossible dream becomes reality."
The impossible dream. Freedom. Not just for me, but for all of them. Every brother and sister who bled in the pits, who bore the lash, who dared to dream of chains breaking. And now...
A Kin guard appears from a hidden door, raising a plasma pistol toward one of my gladiator sisters. Before I can move, Kharn is there, his shield flaring as he takes the shot meant for her. His return stroke is perfect – a fighting pit killing blow, executed with transhuman speed. He fights like me. He protects like me.
A group of my gladiator brothers emerges from a secured building, led by Liberty Eagles in their distinctive armor. One of the warriors carries a child – a slave child who would have died in the pits like so many others. Instead, she reaches for the stars with wonder in her eyes.
The horizon darkened with approaching armies. I had led enough battles to know death when I saw it coming. Millions strong, they marched under the banners of every city-state on Nuceria. The High Riders had finally united, it seemed – united in their desire to crush this slave rebellion once and for all. My stomach clenched, not for myself, but for my brothers and sisters of the pits. We had fought so hard, bled so much...
"Lord Angron." Cavill's voice drew my attention. "We have arrived at the rendezvous point. Reinforcements are inbound."
I turned to where he indicated, and for a moment, I thought the blood-loss had finally driven me mad. A massive gate stood where nothing had been before, its architecture impossible and otherworldly. Liberty Eagles stood guard around it with a casualness that suggested they saw such impossibilities every day.
The armies crashed against our lines like a tide of steel and flesh. "Fall back!" I roared, knowing each step of retreat cost us in blood. The Astartes provided covering fire, their weapons spitting death with ruthless efficiency. And then the gate opened.
They came in waves of White and Blue – more warriors bearing the same marks as Kharn. At their head rode a warrior who introduced himself as Ibram Gheer, Legion Master of the War Hounds. He called me Father with such conviction, such pride, that something shifted in my chest.
"The War Hounds live to serve, Lord Angron," Gheer declared, his warriors already moving to protect my gladiator kin. They fought like I did – direct, brutal, efficient. No wasted movement, no hesitation. Just pure, focused violence.
The next wave came in purple and gold, led by a being whose beauty seemed almost offensive in the midst of such carnage. "Brother," he greeted me, and his voice carried the kind of perfection I had only heard in the songs of dying men. Fulgrim, he called himself, though he didn't need to – somehow, I knew him, as if his name had been written in my blood all along.
Grey-clad warriors howling war-cries that shook the very air came next. Their leader was as untamed as I was, his armor deliberately primitive, his presence radiating the kind of savage nobility I recognized from the greatest gladiators. "Brother," Leman Russ growled, and in his voice I heard the call of kindred spirits.
Then came the warriors in navy blue, their armor adorned with stars, led by one whose presence changed the very atmosphere of the battlefield. His perpetual smirk should have enraged me – I had seen too many High Riders smile like that. But there was something different in his eyes, something that spoke of understanding rather than condescension.
"Brother," Franklin said, pulling me into an embrace before I could process what was happening. "Good to see you finally." The hug should have triggered every combat instinct I had, should have ended with one of us bleeding. Instead, I found myself frozen, experiencing something I had no reference for.
Around us, the battle transformed. The War Hounds fought with my gladiator brothers as if they had trained together for years, anticipating moves, covering weaknesses. The Emperor's Children brought artistry to their slaughter, each squad moving in perfect coordination. The Space Wolves howled their blood-songs, their savage joy in battle matching my own warriors' defiance. And the Liberty Eagles... they turned the battlefield itself against our enemies, their tactics making every position we held seem to multiply our numbers tenfold.
"Quite a family reunion, isn't it?" Franklin's voice carried a hint of laughter even as he casually deflected a las-round that would have taken my head. "Though I have to say, brother, you certainly know how to throw a welcome party."
"Family," I tested the word, watching as Kharn and Oenomaus fought back-to-back, their movements perfectly synchronized. "You claim we are brothers."
"Claim?" Franklin's smirk widened. "No, brother. We are. By blood and by choice – the latter being far more important, wouldn't you say? After all, you've proven that true brotherhood isn't about birth, but about who stands with you when the whole world wants you dead."
A High Rider tank formation tried to break through our lines. Before I could move, Franklin made a gesture, and the skies began to rain fire. The tanks burnt with the smell of promethium "Though I have to admit," he continued as if nothing had happened, "our family gatherings tend to get a bit rowdy."
I watched as my gladiator brothers fought alongside these impossible warriors, saw how the Astartes protected them with the same dedication they showed to their own. This was not the protection of masters over slaves, but of brothers defending brothers.
"Your Emperor," I said finally, "he claims to be our father."
"Ah, yes." Franklin's expression softened slightly. "I know what you're thinking – another High Rider, another master claiming ownership. But trust me, brother, Father is... different. He's more like you than you might think. A liberator. A warrior. Someone who looks at humanity's chains and decides they need breaking."
Around us, the battle began to shift. The armies of Nuceria, for all their numbers, found themselves outmaneuvered at every turn. The impossible gate continued to pour out reinforcements – more War Hounds, more Emperor's Children, more Space Wolves, more Liberty Eagles. Each unit moved with purpose, their actions coordinated with a precision that spoke of a plan long in the making.
"You planned this," I realized, watching as another High Rider formation collapsed under concentrated fire. "All of this."
"Well, someone had to make sure your grand rebellion had a proper finale." Franklin winked. "Consider it a welcome-to-the-family gift. Speaking of which..." He pointed to the sky, where the clouds began to part in a way that nature never intended. "I believe Father's right on cue."
I felt him before I saw him. Not like the predatory presence of a High Rider, dripping with assumed superiority and cruel intent. This was... different. Like standing next to an ancient mountain that had witnessed the birth of civilizations, or feeling the warmth of a sun that chose to walk among mortals.
Franklin had withdrawn, orchestrating the systematic dismantling of the million-strong army that had meant to be our doom. Each order he gave was followed by another impossible victory, another enemy formation collapsing, another High Rider's dreams of glory turning to ash. But my attention was pulled away from even this magnificent display of warfare by a hand on my shoulder.
"My son."
Two words. Just two words, spoken with such depth of emotion that they seemed to carry the weight of millennia. I turned, expecting... I don't know what I expected. Another giant in golden armor perhaps, another figure of impossible martial prowess.
Instead, I found myself looking at what appeared to be a scholar. A middle-aged man in simple white robes, adorned only with a violet sash and a modest wreath of silvered bronze in his grey hair. He looked... ordinary. Deceptively so. Like a weapon wrapped in silk.
"I have finally found you," he continued, and his voice carried none of the affected sophistication of the High Riders, none of their practiced cruelty. "My beautiful son."
Beautiful? I almost laughed. I was a weapon, a thing of muscle and scars and rage. Beautiful was for the poets and artists the High Riders kept in their courts, not for gladiators who had spent their lives bathing in blood and sand.
Yet his eyes... they held something I had never seen in any High Rider's gaze. Understanding. Not pity – I would have killed him where he stood if I had seen pity – but a deep, fundamental understanding of what it meant to fight against chains, both visible and invisible.
"You're the Emperor?" The question came out more bewildered than accusatory. This was no High Rider preening in stolen finery. This was something else entirely.
"Like you, my son," he said, and his gaze took in the burning city, the freed slaves, the broken chains, "I am one who sees the shackles that bind our people and seeks to break them."
As he spoke, I felt the truth of his words resonating in my blood. This was no mere nobleman playing at revolution. This was someone who had walked the long road of liberation, who understood the price of freedom.
"Our people suffer not just under the yoke of petty tyrants like these High Riders," he continued, gesturing at the burning spires of Nuceria's cities, "but under the oppression of xenos raiders, under the weight of ignorance left by Old Night. They need to be lifted up, shown the path to their own greatness."
Around us, the battle continued to unfold like some precisely choreographed dance of death. My sons – and now I could truly feel that connection – fought alongside my gladiator brothers with perfect synchronization. The impossible gate continued to disgorge warriors, each unit moving with purpose, all part of some grand design I was only beginning to glimpse.
"The stars," he said, and in his voice I heard echoes of distant worlds, of battles yet to be fought, of chains yet to be broken. "That is where humanity's destiny lies. That is where we must guide them."
I looked up at the sky, past the golden light that had heralded his arrival, to the stars that had always seemed so distant from the blood-soaked sands of the arena. How many other worlds harbored their own High Riders? How many other slaves waited for liberation?
"A crusade," I said, testing the word. Not just a rebellion, not just a single city's worth of chains to break, but a galaxy-spanning mission of liberation.
"Yes." His smile held understanding, held purpose, held the promise of wars that would make even Nuceria's bloodshed seem small in comparison. "Will you join us, my son? Will you help us free humanity from all its chains?"
I looked at my gladiator brothers, fighting with renewed vigor alongside their transhuman allies. I looked at my sons, the War Hounds, their fury focused and directed in perfect harmony with my own ideals. I looked at my brothers – Fulgrim's grace, Russ's savagery, Franklin's calculating brilliance – all aspects of the same great purpose.
And I looked at this impossible father figure, this being who wore the shape of a scholar but carried himself like the most dangerous warrior I had ever encountered. No gilded throne. No affected airs. Just purpose, power, and a vision that stretched beyond the confines of any single world.
"Yes," I heard myself say, and the word felt like breaking the last invisible chain I hadn't even known I wore. "Yes, I will."
His smile deepened, and for a moment, I saw not just the scholar or the warrior, but something far more ancient and powerful. Something that had waited millennia for this moment.
"Then let us begin."
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone