This is our Warhammer journey

Chapter 314 The Brainless and the Unhappy

Eye of Fear, Midgard in the Demon Forge, Blood God's Wasteland

8:08 PM on August 8th
The Butcher's Nail was humming within Angron's skull.

The ancient torture device slowly spun into his brain like a red-hot iron cone, going deeper and hotter with each passing second. Angron's eyes blazed with furious flames, his gaze fixed on the front of him, his eyes burning with crimson fire.

It was firmly fixed on the Titan, which was made of steel and silver, before its eyes.

Titan wielded a hammer, surrounded by iron ring machines he had forged, like devoted followers protecting the god-king.

His brother is still the same.

Perturabo, the Primarch of the Fourth Legion, was so immersed in his work that he was single-minded, focused, and diligent.

Analyze data, extract information, make decisions, and achieve your goals step by step.

The artillery fire struck the flesh, but bounced off like rubber bullets hitting steel.

The stinging pain in his skull intensified, stimulating the attacked areas. Angron mechanically swung his axe blade, his attention shifting to the void and sinking into memories of the past.

Angron vaguely recalled a being that resembled him but was weaker.

Luojia.

That weak brother, that Great Word Bearer who couldn't ignore Corax's Shadow Strike like the other Primarchs.

In the fragments of memory, Luojia once declared with unwavering conviction:
"Demigods like us can tame any pain."

"Given enough patience, the butcher's nail will become a source of strength."

If one can endure the pain long enough, that pain can be transformed into strength and used for one's own benefit.

The thought caused Angron to exhale a hot breath from his nostrils, making no attempt to hide his contempt for his brother.

Luo Jia's promise now sounds like nothing more than an empty bone thrown by a well-fed slave owner to a starving dog.

The eternal pain inflicted by the butcher's nail made him neither stronger nor weaker.

His power stems solely from the fact that he is Angron.

That's it.

The blood-stained head slowly rose, its furious gaze piercing the dazzling starry river beyond the subspace rift.

Those cold, gleaming lights filled him with loathing.

They are so pure it's nauseating; they never experience the burning sensation of nerves; they are even granted the grace of death.

Even if this happens millions or hundreds of millions of years from now, it would be better than this eternal torment.

In my memory, countless battlefields were filled with such stars.

They stood high above, like nobles in the boxes of the Nukelian Colosseum, looking down and enjoying the gladiators' screams.

clang!
The sounds of weapons clashing echoed across the wasteland.

Angron's gaze met Peturabo's dark eyes.

There was no fear, only contempt.

He wasn't looking at a Primarch of equal standing, but rather at a raging beast.

Just like it was ten thousand years ago.

But the current Lord of Steel is so stingy with even the humiliation of being called a "slave" that he wouldn't even deign to mention it to his brothers.

Perhaps this word has now become a statement.

The iron ring machines forged by the power of chaos surged forth like a tide, each one precisely executing the will of the Iron Lord.

The turret sprayed bullets, and the hydraulic arms swung their weapons.

In the deliberately created gaps of the machine, the Warhammer Furnace crashed into the Demon Primarch in a perfect parabola.

Angron did not dodge.

He charged forward, enduring the whips of those weapons, the butcher's nails bouncing above his head staining the area in front of him crimson.

Boom!

The hammer struck his brass breastplate squarely, and the explosive shockwave pulverized the lava within a radius of a hundred meters.

Peturabo created a suitable distance, and the iron ring machines that had been shaken apart immediately reformed their formation and began to approach.

Then chains and sharp blades wrapped around it and climbed up.

Peturab had learned from the lessons of ten thousand years ago; he knew that artillery fire would greatly reduce the damage to the Khorne demon.

So the Lord of Steel chose a more classical, crueler, and more acceptable method for the Blood God.

*Thud!* Sharp thorns pierced deep into the flesh, hindering the regeneration of blood and flesh. The demonic furnace within the iron ring machine roared, tightening the chains inch by inch.

Fresh blood slid down the skin and flesh rings.

Perturabo precisely dodged the slash, which was slightly slowed by the chains binding him, and then swung his warhammer to smash it onto Angron's skull.

Blood splattered everywhere.

In the distant ancient times of Terra, the strong would wield weapons and ropes to hunt wild beasts that could be used by them.

They would put bridles on the beasts, then stab them with sharp blades, tearing their skin, weakening them, and instilling fear in them, until even the most unruly giants learned to tremble under the whip and serve humankind.

Like those ancient hunters, Peturabo was now taming a beast.

He hammered methodically, coldly and arrogantly.

"arrogant."

Angron's roar burst forth from between his teeth.

This roar, carrying millennia of pent-up resentment, tore through the void like lava spewing from a volcanic eruption, creating crimson ripples.

Perturabo's Iron Guard was shaken and collectively took a half step back, while the demon soul in Forgrim's hand fled in panic at the sound of the roar.

The butcher's nail gleamed like a branding iron, illuminating the inside of his skull in a bright red light.

Angron suddenly felt a suffocating sensation.

Despite being in the boundless Blood God Wasteland, he felt as if he were trapped in an iron cage in Nukelia. This sense of confinement enraged him, causing him to flap his demonic wings. The giant wings, made of steel and flesh, tore through the sulfurous air, carrying him into the void.

He dragged more than ten iron ring robots into the air.

clang!
The chainsaw axe roared hungrily as it slashed at Peturabo's cold, steel body.

Just as he swung his axe, Angron caught a glimpse of the Conqueror, sailing among the distant stars, and the shadows around it.

Many times.

He had seen several shadows in the void surrounding the Conqueror.

As the shadows drew near, and as the Conqueror spat out the World Eater from its belly and threw it around the shadows, its tormented offspring were finally freed.

Their tormented souls have vanished.

hatred.

An unprecedented hatred filled his chest like lava.

The Spinebreaker's serrated teeth spun at high speed, the dragon-tooth serrated teeth covered in adamantite slashing at the Iron Lord's armor, creating countless sparks.

This is jealousy; he is jealous that his offspring, who should have suffered eternal torment with him, have been able to find release.

He hated these descendants who were able to find liberation.

But this is not the only reason why hatred overwhelmed Angron.

He saw the shadow of a malevolent being behind those shadows.

A gladiator around him died one by one, and just as he was about to join them, he was teleported away.

The existence he hated the most.

Why do those brothers remind me of that tyrant?
Angron didn't want to remember his father, and he knew that the man had never treated him as a son.

But this infuriating feeling of disgust still cannot be dispelled.

Because that person has a way.

That person could destroy him, could put him into an eternal slumber, could create a replacement far superior to him.

But he didn't do that.

But that person chose to let eternal torment fall upon his son, and propelled an even more cruel future toward the future.

Angron shook his head violently, his face, shattered by Peturabo's steel fist, instantly healed, and he let out a thunderous roar.

The sword of Saniaris clashed with the Forgebreaker, and the sparks that erupted illuminated Angron's distorted face. In that instant of intense light, he seemed to see again the golden dome of Terra's palace, and the shadow beneath it sitting on the throne.

The buzzing of the Butcher's Nail suddenly turned into a sharp shriek, like the wails of millions of dying people.

Angron slashed with all his might, as if the Perturabo before him were the emperor he loathed.

He hated everything; he wanted to kill everything.

He will wield the long whip that his brothers have built, and then rush into the real universe.

He will soon find out what those despicable brothers are, and he will destroy them with extreme violence.

Or he might be killed by his brothers!
　P.S.: More will be available later.
　　
　
(End of this chapter)