Military police of Durmoth guarding the city outskirts were slaughtered by the Space Marines. Not a single heavy weapon of theirs could pierce the power armor worn by these superhuman soldiers—ceremonial battle suits that were also impenetrable killing machines.
"Quick! Lock down every door in the Prime Minister's Office! Send emergency signals to allied planets!"
The Prime Minister of Durmoth shouted, his body trembling beneath the bronze-star neutralizing wooden desk.
"Prime Minister! All communication lines have been cut! We have no response from any system! We're... alone now!"
The Defense Minister yelled in panic, his face pale as he gripped the office's emergency pistol.
"THE MONSTERS ARE IN!!"
Fearful screams echoed through the corridors, followed by massive explosions shaking the building's foundation.
"FOR THE EMPEROR!!"
A war cry thundered as hundreds of Space Marines stormed the highest executive building of Durmoth simultaneously. Their steps shook the floors, and with each advance, their sheer presence was enough to break and crush anything in their path. Blood sprayed into the air like mist; bodies flew like tattered rags.
"BLOCK THE ENTRANCES! STOP THEM! STOP THEM!!!"
The Prime Minister's desperate cries echoed throughout the floor, but no one could hold back the titans in their power armor.
"Alien bastards!!"
Akrol, Assault Captain of the 5th Legion, shouted while raising his devastating chain sword. He swung it toward Prime Minister Durmoth, who was trying to escape amidst the crowd of staff and personal guards.
One swing. One spray of blood. The Prime Minister's head flew off, bouncing twice before landing at the feet of his own statue.
With the death of its leader, the Tuskborn Federation had effectively collapsed.
---
Following Inquisition protocol, the remaining Durmoth citizens were transferred to shelters for "further processing." They would receive neither justice nor mercy. What awaited them were the Inquisitorial Biologists' operating tables, Adeptus Mechanicus slave production chambers, and a slim chance of being recruited as genetic test subjects.
The human empire would squeeze every last drop of value from them, until only bones and dust remained.
"I've been too kind to these aliens,"
commented Kenthelion, standing on the ruins of a balcony, gazing distantly at the shelters. A faint smile played on his lips—barely distinguishable between satisfaction and mockery.
The Space Marine Corps' name had now spread far and wide, and their brutal footage wiping out soldiers of various races had shaken all civilizations across the Central Rim.
Some surviving alien soldiers began to classify those terrifying beings by threat level. One consensus formed: if you see a light-blue armored figure, immediately drop your weapons and raise your hands—you might still be saved. But if the approaching behemoth is a dark-blue giant bearing a bat emblem on its chest… don't bother fighting back. Just kill yourself. It'll be faster and… less painful.
---
Ding. "Host, do you wish to acquire the original gene?"
The familiar system voice suddenly echoed inside Kenthelion's mind, stopping him mid-action.
"What is this… Primarch?"
He lifted his head from the pile of Imperial strategic reports. A flash of confusion crossed his face, quickly replaced by shock. Memories of the game he once played in his former life—and even the Emperor of Mankind's consciousness now living within him—flashed rapidly in his mind.
Primarch.
Creatures born not only from the highest genetic engineering, but also carrying the eternal bloodline of the Emperor and Erda. Twenty-one legendary beings—twenty-one imperial princes.
They were more than just war leaders. They were the pinnacle of human evolution. Stronger than regular Space Marines in every way, surpassing even the Custodes in physical strength, speed, intelligence, and charisma. They were the symbol and foundation of the Imperium Caelestis.
The Primarchs were born in secret labs beneath the Himalayas, with genetic structures based on—but different from—the Emperor and Erda. Not only genetic tech, but the Emperor also imbued them with ancient psychic heritage, forging their souls. They were not merely biological creations, but spiritual legacies.
Kenthelion paused, letting his mind dwell in the memories. Primarchs… like gods on the battlefield. Even the weakest among them could slaughter tens of thousands of Space Marines, even when armed with heavy equipment.
Behind the creation of the Primarchs was one name nearly lost in the Emperor's shadow—Erda. Not just a genius scientist, but a Perpetual: an immortal being unaffected by time or age. Together with the Emperor, she was the secret architect of humanity's greatest genetic project. Many called her the "mother" of the Primarchs—not because she gave birth naturally, but because she shaped their humanity—empathy, guilt, courage, even rage.
Yet Erda did not stay to see her creations' fate. She left, disappointed in the Emperor's goals and methods. She saw those children not nurtured with love, but forged into weapons. Legend whispers that Chaos's betrayal of the project—which scattered the Primarchs across worlds—originated from Erda herself. If true, it was not hatred but love. Because she wanted them free, even if it meant living in ruin and suffering.
"Come on, Roboute Guilliman or Rogal Dorn, even Sanguinius are still within reach," he murmured eagerly. Hope filled his voice.
Though he knew—the reality was that the most likely choice now was Lorgar Aurelian. But even the Preacher held strategic value if used wisely.
But the system left no time to linger in hope.
Ding. "Congratulations, host, you have found the Red Sand Angel—Angron."
"…What is this?"
Kenthelion stared at the floating system screen, eyes narrowing. His face was full of confusion. He had just named greats like Guilliman and Sanguinius—iconic, honorable figures. But the system showed… Angron?
"Red Sand Angel?"
He frowned briefly, then important details popped up on the screen, making his eyes light up.
"Version without Butcher's Nails?"
"Buy!" he shouted spontaneously, almost cheering. He initially thought it was some "buy one get one free" promo—but no. The version without Butcher's Nails was an ultra-rare item.
"At least I don't have to worry about him going berserk and slaughtering the entire fleet."
But the euphoria didn't last long.
Ding. "To obtain the Angron without Butcher's Nails, 100 trillion war points are required. Limited time. Remaining: 7 days."
Kenthelion jumped from his seat. His eyes sharpened, full of determination.
"Buy now! Immediately!"
Ding. "Location: Nuceria Arena."
He clenched his fist. "Call the Castellan Fleet! Order Karn to return! Pull all World Eater Legions from the front lines! Prepare the rescue operation now!"
Quickly, Kenthelion donned the golden power armor—the Emperor of Mankind's legacy. An aura of strength and honor radiated from every curve of the sacred armor. But he brought not just power, but a cold resolve and deep love.
"This time, I will not repeat the Emperor's mistakes."
Kenthelion still remembered—for Angron, what was called betrayal was not about the Imperium, but betrayal of love and the only family he ever had: the gladiators. They were not just comrades-in-arms—they were the first to treat him like a human being.
"If I arrive there… I will do what's right. I will save them. I will love Angron… like my own son."
This Angron—without Butcher's Nails—still had a chance to heal, to change. Kenthelion knew there was no guarantee. Even if he poured out sincere love… Angron might still betray him.
And if that day came—
"If I have done everything the Emperor never did… and he still betrays me…"
Kenthelion gripped his weapon's handle.
"Then I will be the one to kill that King."
---
"Now! Let us welcome! The star of Nuceria! The Gladiator King… ANGRON!!!"
Cheers rocked the arena. Angron strode in, his massive body scarred, a great axe in hand dripping old dried blood. Each step echoed like a god's hammer.
From the shadows of the stands, an old gladiator watched… and sighed heavily.
That was Oenomaus—the old man who had meant everything to Angron. He was the one who found the boy among piles of corpses. He was the one who saved Angron from a world that preferred to see boys like him dead.
To keep Angron alive in the hell of Nuceria, Oenomaus taught him how to live as a gladiator: to fight, to kill, and to keep standing.
---
BOOM!
With a savage roar, Angron struck his opponent—a foreign monster clad in metal with plasma claws—and with one swing of his axe, the opponent's head flew into the air!
"RAGE! RAGE! RAGE!!"
The cries of various alien races shook the stadium. The arena was filled with madness and awe.
---
Oenomaus stepped into the arena, approaching Angron standing in blood and glory. With trembling hands, he touched his adopted son's shoulder.
"Angron…" he whispered gently.
They had fought together for over ten years. And Oenomaus knew… the time was almost up.
---
"Next fight!"
A sharp voice echoed from the upper balcony. It was Governor Croco, the dictator of Nuceria.
"The Red Sand Angel Angron! Will fight… his mentor and father! Oenomaus!!"
The arena fell silent. Then erupted into wild screams.
Dozens of fully armed soldiers roughly dragged Oenomaus out.
"BASTARD!!"
Angron roared, his body exploding with fury. He charged at one of the soldiers, choking him until his bones shattered, then surged toward Oenomaus.
But a sharp voice stopped him.
"ANGRON! You must kill him with your own hands... or I will torture him slowly until he begs for death!"
Governor Croco stood on the balcony with a cruel smile. In his hand, a laser pistol was aimed at Oenomaus's head.
"Kill him, and you'll enjoy one full day of freedom... Hahaha!"
He kicked the old man's body until he fell.
---
The old gladiator smiled weakly. "My son... it's time to end this. I am not your father. You must return to where you truly belong. To your real home..."
Angron gritted his teeth. Emotions flooded his chest—anger, confusion, pain.
"I never expected... you'd be such a bastard!"
Croco laughed wildly.
"How dare you call him your father! Hahahaha! Let's see if your real father will come to save you... HAHAHAHA!!"
---
"SIR GOVERNOR! WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!!"
Alarms blared across the city. Soldiers scrambled. Croco's eyes widened.
And from the sky...
A massive fleet of starships descended, ripping through Nuceria's atmosphere, destroying defense towers within seconds.
Kenthelion stood on the main ship's deck, his eyes glowing gold.
"I have come to claim my son."