Warhammer, I'm a nanny, not your father!

"Freedom is not a gift, it's a battle! I won't give it to you, but I will lead you to take it back with your own hands!"

“The weight of choice must be borne by oneself, and resistance is the key to freedom.”

Angron's voice was like a dull axe splitting the frozen earth, carving cracks in the dead silence.

"If you choose freedom, please allow me to lead you to break the shackles of the old world! I cannot promise that you will all live to see the dawn, but I swear to you - the dawn will surely come!"

"What a good child." Claudia leaned on Wop, her words filled with moonlight-like tenderness.

Wop: "Moved?"

She didn't say anything, just nodded against his chest, her hair tickling his chin.

"Could you please put your glass down?"

"There's my saliva on it, do you want a sip?" She casually shook the wine glass in her hand, and the amber wine flowed in the candlelight, making the smile on the corner of her lips even more unpredictable.

Wop ignored her.

Who the hell would take a sip of wine from a glass like watching a play when they are moved?

But he did not expect Claudia to really have the awareness to liberate the slaves. He cared more about deeds than intentions.

Betrayal of class is a hundred times more valuable than empty consciousness. Since Claudia has crossed that line, Wop has no right to ask for more.

The fact that the young lady was willing to take off her lace gloves and touch the shackles was already considered unorthodox. Did we expect her to actually smell the stench of the slave?

Even Wop himself couldn't be that noble.

He can break the slaves' shackles, give them freedom, and teach them what resistance is, but don't expect him to suck the slaves' carbuncles and hemorrhoids.

Not only a slave, but even Claudia wouldn't do this.

But Angron was different. If necessary, he could actually suck the slave's carbuncle and lick his hemorrhoids.

Because of his nobility and because of his empathy.

When he influences others, their emotions will surge back like a tide and soak into his own heart.

Like a stone thrown into the water, the ripples will eventually make their way back to the shore.

When someone suffers, others seek comfort by empathizing with them, but only Angron truly empathizes.

Using this ability is also a burden for him.

Wop saw Angron approaching him. "Will you stay a little longer?"

The boy shook his head, he had told them all he wanted to say.

Although he could continue to stay here to comfort them, he also had his own selfish motives. He wanted to stay with his father for a while longer.

“Sister Claudia.” Angron raised his head.

Claudia reached out and stroked the boy's cheek: "Be good, call me mommy."

Angron remained unmoved. "Thank you, Sister Claudia. I'm sorry for the expense."

"Spend money?" Claudia's lips curled up in a perfect arc, her eyes gleaming with calculation. "My child, this is a sure-win deal. I bet on your survival. Do you know the odds? One thousand to one! I only spent a fraction of it to buy them out. If you keep winning, perhaps I can use the money I win to buy out the entire arena before you rebel."

"Do you trust Angron so much?" Wop's gaze lingered on Claudia for a few more seconds. Even though Wop believed that Angron could work miracles, he did not expect Angron to save everyone at the beginning. But Claudia dared to bet directly on the grand slam, and the one to one thousand odds was the reward she deserved.

"Dear, don't you understand?" Claudia suddenly bit Wop's earlobe hard, whispering between the pain and tenderness, "I don't believe in him, I believe in you."

Angron lowered his head. This stepmother was really crazy.

But it’s no use criticizing him any more. If he doesn’t get his father’s recognition, no one can make him call her mom.

……

"Use your heart as a mirror to see the true meaning of psychic power." Ainol leaned close to Mira's ear, and his warm breath brushed the girl's earlobe.

"Relax," she whispered softly, her voice like a stream in the moonlight, "Let the spiritual energy flow through your veins like a spring breeze caressing new buds."

Her slender fingers gently placed on Mira's trembling wrist, "Don't look at it with your eyes. It flows between the breath of all things, not floating in the palm of your hand. Feel it, just like feeling your own heartbeat."

The girl's frown gradually relaxed, and a faint blue light appeared on her fingertips.

"Right, that is it."

Ainol's lips were almost touching Mira's ear, and his whisper turned into invisible silk threads, gently entwining the restless spiritual energy, "You are not controlling the storm, but dancing with the stars."

"Listen carefully to its call, but remember not to let the whispers of Chaos consume you."

Humans are different from the Eldar.

The Eldar are a naturally psionic race, and all of them are psykers.

The average psychic talent of the Eldar is stronger than that of other races, but only a very small number of Eldar have high psychic talents, and these Eldar usually become prophets.

But since the fall of the Eldar Empire and the weeping birth of the youngest goddess, this once glorious race has become like a prisoner walking on a spider's web.

The soul of every Eldar creature hangs on the hungry tongue of Slaanesh, and they dare not use even the slightest ripple of psychic power.

Humanity is at the critical point of moving towards psychic ascension. The entire civilization is like a boiling furnace, and the emergence of psychics is like sparks that set the prairie on fire.

The weakest awakeners can only catch the aftertaste of psychic ripples, like seeing flowers in the fog;

The strongest people at the peak can distort the laws of reality with just a wave of their hands and feet, and the stars tremble wherever their will goes.

In this psychic frenzy that is sweeping across human civilization, the entire race stands at the crossroads of fate.

In the abyss beneath the thin ice, a horror slumbers that could devour the stars;

And above the ice layer is a rainbow bridge leading to the sea of ​​stars.

Even though hope is slim, humanity still has a chance.

The spiritual energy danced lightly on the girl's fingertips, like a group of naughty elves.

Those bright blue dots of light sometimes gathered into a dazzling galaxy, and sometimes dispersed into fine light mist, flowing and playing between her slender white knuckles.

Whenever she curled her fingers slightly, spiritual energy would roll on her skin like morning dew; when she stretched them, they would turn into firefly-like ribbons that would entwine and dance.

This spiritual energy seemed to have a will of its own, sometimes rubbing against her wrist affectionately, and sometimes playfully blooming tiny ripples of light beside her ears.

Mira suddenly turned around and rushed towards Ainol, "Sister Ainol, thank you!"

Ainor gently hugged the girl. After a long time, she squeezed out an almost inaudible whisper from her dry throat: "Mira, if, if you really want to thank me, can you do me a favor?"

Mira nodded, "Yeah, what can I do to help Sister Ainol?"

Ainol's fingers suddenly clenched the corner of Mira's clothes. She lowered her head, letting her silver hair cover her violently shaking pupils. "Please ask my master for me and let me become your servant."

"Why?" Mira subconsciously took a half step back, her voice as thin as a mosquito's, "Sister Enol, did Sister Claudia abuse you?"

"Abuse?" The maid paused as she grasped the teaspoon, causing ripples to form on the tea surface. "If you mean physical abuse, I would hope so."

Physical pain has its limits, but the torment of the soul has no end.

Chapter 90 The Greater the Ability (5K)

Ten days ago, Angron experienced his first game.

They called it the Devil's Tears.

He saw the devil, where were the tears?

Angron didn't know, maybe on the day they died.

"Why are you here?" a gladiator suddenly asked the boy, "You are clearly not a slave. I heard that your father is the favorite of a high-ranking knight and is treated like a precious jewel in his hand. With your status, why would you risk participating in a gladiatorial contest?"

Angron saw that his broad chest was covered with scars and one of his fists was covered with brass knuckles.

Angron answered him, "Because you are here."

"Why?" The gladiator's eyes were full of confusion.

Although there are also high-ranking knights who enjoy the pleasure of killing and will come to the arena specifically to slaughter slaves.

But Angron was clearly different from them. He not only risked his life to save hundreds of slaves, but also persuaded the high-ranking knight to buy them all.

You have to know that most of those slaves are old, weak, sick and disabled. They are not qualified to fight in the arena, nor are they worthy of being entertained by the nobles. In the end, they can only waste their lives in the cruel game of Devil's Tears.

What value did they have that Angron coveted?

Angron stared at him. "How am I any different from you?"

The gladiator finally managed to say, "We are slaves."

Angron slowly shook his head, his voice filled with undeniable strength. "No, we are all human beings. We bleed, we suffer, we feel sad, and we can also be happy. We are living people."

Armed omnics drove the slaves from behind, and the tips of the electric prods in their hands constantly burst out dazzling blue and white arcs of electricity.

Anyone who dares to defy them will be severely beaten and unable to take care of themselves.

Angron followed the others into a circular hall with a soaring dome.

A few torches flickered on the mottled stone walls, shrouding the entire space in a dim glow.

In the center of the hall stood a long table covered with knife marks and blood stains, with rusty swords, cracked shields and torn leather armor piled cluttered on the table.

Each piece exudes the smell of decaying rust, as if silently telling the final fate of their owner.

Those veterans who had been struggling for years immediately pounced on the long table like hungry wolves. Their calloused hands accurately grabbed the most handy battle axes and tridents. These weapons stained with old blood glowed dimly and coldly in the firelight.

They roughly pushed their competitors away with their shoulders, growling like beasts in their hoarse voices, and the metal armor plates made a harsh clash as they were hastily put on.

Some experienced gladiators even deliberately scratched the arms of others with the tips of their weapons, delivering a silent death threat.

The gladiator withdrew from the melee, a dagger in one hand, a double-bladed battle axe in the other. He turned and walked towards Angron, his scarred chest heaving violently, and slammed the axe handle into his palm.

"Here, I know this might not be very handy for you, but it's better than being empty-handed. Follow me as soon as the door opens, and don't die too quickly!"

The gladiators around them stopped what they were doing and stabbed the two of them with their eyes like knives.

In the turbid air, a kind of silent tacit understanding was spreading. Bloodthirsty dark fires flickered in their eyes, but they all tacitly maintained a strange silence.

Just last night, a high-ranking knight visited the slave camp.

If they could kill Angron in the arena, they would be exempted from the obligation to fight ten life-and-death duels.

Ten games! This means a whole quarter without having to face the harvest of the Grim Reaper’s scythe.

Angron took the axe silently, not refusing the gladiator.

But with the sound of wood breaking, the gladiators' eyes suddenly froze, because Angron broke the axe handle in two and threw the axe head into the dust, leaving only the broken birch fibers protruding like bone stumps on the handle.

"You..." The gladiator sighed, "Forget it, remember to follow me closely."

The door slowly opened amid the cheers of the crowd, and the scorching sunlight pierced into the dark corridor like a sword, illuminating the slaves huddled in the shadows.

"Angron! Angron! Angron!"

The slaves were driven into the light, and waves of roaring roars came from all directions. The excited audience in the stands shouted Angron's name hysterically.

"Run!" The gladiator's roar exploded in the noisy arena.

When the first ray of sunlight pierced through the shadows, the prelude to killing had already begun.

The gladiators rushed towards the two men like a pack of hyenas smelling blood, and dozens of sharp blades drew deadly arcs under the scorching sun.

These gladiators are all top-notch fighters. They have the blood of "beasts" flowing in their bodies and have the same origin as the beastmen in the wilderness.

This bloodline was the reason for their lowly birth, but it also granted them inhuman strength. If both sides were unarmed, those high-ranking knights could be killed by a single blow from them.

But Angron was more than a child; he was the Primarch.

Angron dodged the gladiator's knife stab from behind, his figure flashing through the crowd like lightning, the wooden stick in his hand leaving a trail of afterimage.

"boom!"

The gladiator flew more than three meters into the air, his body plowing a deep groove in the sand.

Angron's power was precisely calculated; the angle of the blow was just enough to avoid all vital organs, and the force was controlled to a critical point that would incapacitate the gladiator but not be fatal.

"boom!"

No one could withstand Angron's three blows; his growth rate was far beyond common sense.

The gladiators were thrown out one after another like broken dolls, their bodies slamming heavily onto the scorching red sand, splashing pieces of hot gravel, and the muffled sounds that came one after another were like death knells.

Angron looked back, and saw that no one was standing except the gladiator who had handed him the weapon.

The gladiator picked up a battle axe, spat blood, and roared at Angron, "Why?"

This question carries too much.