I'm a magnetic field madman

Yes, we'll have a proper chat before the match starts.

"By Ruth, these bastards have robbed me of my only daily leisure time!"

Jomond muttered curses, followed by an uncontrollable wave of gloomy emotions...

"Even if we really die here, at least let us eliminate more aliens for the Emperor."

Krom felt uneasy upon hearing him speak like that.

Every Space Wolf bears the whip marks of its slave owner, but Jomond's Terminator armor is in the worst condition.

He fought very hard from the start. However, the slave owners bound him with chains that crackled with dark energy, like their whips.

They removed his heavy weapons and smashed his servo motors until he could barely stand up, no matter how hard he tried.

Then, he had to take off his precious Terminator armor.

The gladiatorial arenas of the Dark Eldar are never primarily set up to pursue the strongest; what they always enjoy is the ugly spectacle of gladiators languishing in mid-to-late, agonizing, and half-dead state.

The full gear that equips Space Marines might not be the strongest in this cold galaxy... but it allows them to avoid most of the pain that comes with gladiatorial combat.

Krom was like that; in his last gladiator fight, he used a wooden stick to kill several mutated ghouls.

It wasn't difficult, but the ghoul's claws, coated with neurotoxin, still caused him excruciating pain.

Then each time, Krom would try to break through the edge of the arena, attempting to strangle the pointed ears above by passing through the knotted razor wire, but he always failed.

Then the whip, as usual, wrapped around his arms, legs, and throat, and began to burn his nervous system.

Krom knew it was futile to fight against his captors... yet, consumed by rage, he always did.

The struggles these people displayed were seen as utter ugliness by the Dark Eldar, a source of pleasure for them who derived from suffering.

To put it simply, they are the "chefs" with pointy ears.

The thought of Jomond resigning himself to fate filled Krom with rage. He wanted to jump up. He wanted to yell at his wolf brothers.

Three of them shared a cell with him. There were many more in the other rooms. He wanted to remind them that they were Fenris's wolves.

Most of them were members of his Dalian—the Dragon Slayers. He wanted to tell them to stand up, break through their iron bars, and tear the jailers' throats.

"Howling Brothers..."

He recalled. The young Bloodclaw had been brought to the arena before him.

Krom hadn't seen him there, but that didn't prove anything.

"Has he...has he come back?"

No one answered his question. No one needed to.

Krom has stopped counting the days he has spent here.

His automatic senses indicated that a month and a half had passed, but each of his brothers had a different record.

For the first few days, or weeks, he was convinced that the other members of the Dragon Slayers would follow him here.

No matter how impossible their journey may be—for him, for their wolf lord, they will always find a way.

He now knew no one was coming. If he wanted to escape this hellish place, he would have to do it all by himself.

What if the people who arrest him temporarily gain the upper hand?

What if the red sky were filled with ships of the Dark Eldar?

Beyond that sky, beyond this dark city...

Do Space Marines dream? Krom didn't know, but under the torment of these pointy-eared creatures...

Krom found himself increasingly reminiscing about what it felt like to be a mortal.

He wasn't a native of Fenris, although he had spent most of his life on his perpetually frozen homeworld...

But he was actually a kid from a mining planet in the Calesis Sector.

To be honest, it was just a coincidence that he became a space wolf.

But no matter what, he was always a man who had traversed that endless ice field and drunk Fenris mead.

The Space Wolves are probably one of the few Space Marine chapters that people would consider closer to ordinary people...

It lacks the rigid, dogmatic teachings of Ultramarines and the mysticism of Dark Angels...

They don't have the same bias towards those junkies as Iron Hand; they're just as emotionally vibrant as their Primarch, and that's probably why...

Under the torment and cruelty of the Comoros, these wolf warriors quickly lost their aura as "angels."

Ultimately, the title "the Emperor's angel of death" was nothing more than a claim spread by the state religion to propagate its doctrines and deter unruly commoners.

In reality, 99% of the people of this vast empire will never have the chance to see a real Space Marine in their lifetime.

Even the planetary governors regarded them as mere legends and myths, never as real beings.

In this cold and dangerous cesspool of a universe, these Space Marines, who are essentially just modified soldiers, are far from being demigods.

With each step he made on the floor, which seemed alive beneath him, Krom knew those damned pointy-eared creatures were coming again. He had counted their footsteps as they approached his cell.

There were more people than the previous six, and they weren't the beast kings wielding nerve whips.

Krom frowned as he looked at the fully armed Conspiracy Society warriors in front of him.

His keen intuition told him that something was about to go wrong.

They beckoned to him and spoke to him in vulgar and abusive language. A few senior guards had translators, which they used to relay orders to the prisoners.

The rest of the people have other ways of expressing themselves.

However, these Dark Eldar seemed to understand some High Gothic, and the meaning conveyed from their speech seemed to be—

Crom and his brothers are going to participate in the Ultimate Wrestling.

They will be fully armed to face their enemy. If they can defeat him, they will all gain their precious freedom.

In the name of Kane and in the integrity of the Dark Muse.

Ha, Krom wouldn't believe a single syllable of such nonsense. He didn't think these stinking farts would actually let them go. Besides, what dignity did they have?

Korom remained silent, for this might be a rare opportunity—a chance to escape the arena—or at least, a chance to die a glorious death.

Krom's equipment was returned in full: his power armor, a fully loaded bomb gun, and most importantly, a sharp double-edged frost axe, his favorite weapon, the Demon Claw!

His fingers gripped it tightly. It felt like an extension of his hand. He missed the feeling and the presence of it so much.

Not all the equipment was returned; at the very least, the molten bomb that Krom had intended to use to commit suicide when he was captured was not returned.

As Krom pondered this, he laboriously donned his power armor—

These stinking fart demons were actually quite "kind" in ordering some snake people to help them... after all, it would be difficult for one person to put on this power armor.

All preparations were complete. The black shell was connected to the automatic sensing system, the helmet's optical imaging system was intact, and the vital signs detection system was damaged... But these pointed ears were filled with stimulants and painkillers.

This is abnormal; all the behaviors of these pointed ears appear extremely abnormal.

But Crom had no time to think; his remaining reason and intelligence were focused on how to escape, or at least how to rush into the streets of Comoros and start a killing spree.

So he simply shoved aside the two snake-men beside him and coldly stared at the conspiratorial warrior in front of him...

These foul-smelling farts chuckled and spoke in that disgusting high Gothic tone...

"Seize this opportunity, ape. You and your companions will have the chance to leave the arena."

"I've placed a heavy bet on you all, so remember to tear that little monkey to shreds..."

8. Loyalty and traitors, insects and titanium

He walked through the green corridor. Crom passed rows of sealed doors, and from behind them he could hear screams of pain, extreme agony, or rage. He could hear the roars and cheers of the audience growing louder and louder.

Three more wolves waited in the crowded assembly area, each with its own escort. Krom was undoubtedly overjoyed to see his fighting brethren still there.

Aside from the extremely pessimistic Jomond, the other two were Beoric Winter and Silver Throw. They weren't members of his own company, but seeing even one of his living comrades made Krom exceptionally happy.

Silver Throw was covered in wounds, and even in his power armor, the obvious fatigue on his face was still visible.

Before Crom could speak, Beorick said...

"They made him fight a giant spider with blades on its legs. The pointed-eared spider suddenly stopped fighting before he was torn apart."

"I chopped off all four legs of that spider!" Yin Zhi said defiantly.

“But spiders have eight legs,” Krom chuckled.

Before Silver Throw could retaliate, another participant was brought in: Osnir, a member of the Dark Angels' think tank, and another dressed in black armor with a white hood, a skull hood, and a winged sword emblem—a typical Dark Angels' interrogation priest.

Krom unconsciously pursed his lips.

Krom despises the Dark Angels and their mysterious ways of doing things.

He was struck by the mystery and sense of superiority that their experiences left him with.

He couldn't trust them because they only trusted themselves—and as the rumors said, they couldn't even trust some of their own brothers... always keeping a bomb pinned behind anyone they didn't trust.

Indeed, long ago, there was a tense relationship between Lemanrus and the Lion King.

Another fact is that although the Primarchs forgave each other, many in their Legions and subsequent Warbands never truly let go of the past.

The replenishment of personnel does not appear to be finished.

Soon, a beastmaster pushed a war beast in. Krom saw the spiky carapace and six powerful limbs and immediately knew that he had seen a Tyranid creature.

“A gene stealer…” he muttered gloomily.

"You can tell from its size and the shape of its head that it's a nest leader," Jomond murmured.

As an enemy, it would be the worst possible target, but this thing is actually their "teammate," meaning that in the upcoming deadly battle, they won't be fighting this thing alone.

"Who exactly is our enemy? It can't just be a Primarch, can it?" Krom joked in a very irreverent manner.

Of course, Krom wouldn't really think that way. A more rational assessment would be that the enemy they were facing was a team.

This is a fierce team battle to the death, a clash of titans, bringing a new thrill to those lousy, pointy-eared idiots.

Immediately afterwards, two other Space Marines were brought in. Krom glanced at them, and his eyes instantly turned red.

"traitor!!"

Instinctive rage made him roar at the abhorrent figures, two blue and red traitorous Space Marines with conspicuous bat wing decorations on their helmets—two rebel soldiers of the Eighth Legion!

"Save your breath, you wolf cub, Ruth." The two traitors from the Eighth Legion looked at Krom with sneer and said disdainfully...

"The Corpse King won't protect you in this godforsaken place. Your howling and screaming won't help you."

Crom was about to lash out when Jomond, standing next to him, sarcastically remarked...

“By Ruth—I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have said that, after all, the Primarchs of you bat bastards were beheaded by an assassin ten thousand years ago.”

"Oh, so you guys still want to shout 'Long live the Lord of Night'? Sorry, sorry, perhaps you could try something else, like 'Long live Abaddon'?"

"Well said, brother!" Krom laughed wildly, while the two bat cubs reacted violently, cursing something in Nostradamus with twisted rage.

Although they appeared to be on the same side in form... Krom would rather fight alongside some aliens he didn't particularly dislike than associate with this bunch of vile traitors.

For example, the Tau people, although their ignorance and arrogance are quite unsettling and nonsensical... at least in the Alien universe, they are the kind of people you can talk to before shooting.

Just as Krom was thinking this, another Tau alien actually arrived.

Amidst the disapproving and hostile gazes of his fellow Space Marines…

This thin and tired Titan had blue skin and a face similar to those of his kind, resembling that of a fish. His not-so-tall figure looked somewhat hunched, but what was most distinctive about him were his eyes.

Even Space Marines like them, who mingled in the Comoros, were not immune to gloom and despair... but in the eyes of this Tau man, there was only clarity and wisdom.

"A Titan? Hahaha, I'm starting to question the prestige of this gladiatorial contest!"

The Eighth Legion's traitorous Space Marine spoke in a sarcastic tone, but what he said was indeed the truth...

The Titans, a race that has only gradually risen to prominence on the eastern edge of the Milky Way in the last thousand years, are quite well-known within the galaxy.

At least compared to those other alien races that couldn't even cause a ripple...

The Tau people, who have already occupied a territory equivalent to an entire extreme star field, are considered a considerable force.

However, as a member of this shitty universe, the other players obviously wouldn't give this "newbie" any preferential treatment or benefits. It's also fortunate that the Tau people's territory is relatively remote, and the human empire is constantly fighting with all sorts of monsters and demons... so the Tau people have been able to remain ignorant and naive and survive to this day.

Getting back to the main point, due to their physiological structure, the Tai people have never been considered respectable gladiators in the Comoros.

Their physical structure and skeletal architecture destined the Tau people to be unskilled in close combat... Although their eyesight gave them decent ranged attack capabilities, in this universe, not being able to fight at close range is the biggest fatal flaw.