Chapter 463: He Is Indeed a Talent

"Lord Angron, you've returned." The mistress's voice brimmed with vitality and joy.

Steam hissed, the power furnace rumbled and shook, the mutated crew cheered in frenzy, as if the entire Conqueror itself thrummed with their excitement.

For the Conqueror—or rather, the master of the World Eaters Legion—had returned.

Scorching flames openly spilled into reality, burning a searing hole through it.

The four elite servants of Korsakos screamed in terror.

They had all heard it with Korsakos—that hot, thick, volcanic breath.

The stench of sulfur filled the air; a fear from ten thousand years past rose in their hearts.

"No!" Korsakos shrieked in terror: "No! No! No!"

Why? Why had he returned?! Why was he here?! Why now?!

Could that woman truly summon Angron?!

Fury, flame, rage, slaughter, blood, sulfur, roars, war, burning, burning, and burning stepped from the Warp into reality.

The veil groaned; the material universe screamed in agony. The monstrous beast had thrust one foot into reality—its black wings spread wide, sulfur fire engulfing the bridge.

Korsakos let out a wail.

He felt it: the grand ambition he had spent ten thousand years building was being burned to ash in the sulfur flame—everything would end.

The nails on Korsakos's skull buzzed and roared, awakening the fury buried in his brainstem.

Everything was broken. Everything had vanished.

He spun in rage, facing his father, raising his bolter toward the crimson beast's face, radiant with wrath.

"ANGRON!!" Korsakos bellowed, spurred by the Butcher's Nails.

Angron smiled—whether in praise or mockery, no one could tell.

But the beast smiled.

Even ten thousand years ago, when he still wore human form, Korsakos had never seen him smile.

Was this smile for Korsakos? Or for the mistress behind him?

Korsakos fired the bolter—the explosion roared from its barrel.

Fire erupted across the face of the monster who had once been his father, roaring, consuming his features.

But the beast remained unharmed.

How could a bolter harm him?

He was the Lord of Red Sand, the Primarch, the Emperor's son, the Blood God's mightiest demon prince—the embodiment of war, rage, and slaughter.

The Butcher's Nails on Korsakos's skull buzzed and hissed like venomous snakes, urging him to charge, to unleash his fury upon the crimson beast.

He roared, hurling his chainsword at the crimson beast.

The axe struck the beast's brass chestplate and was violently flung away, clattering beside the bridge door.

Then Korsakos screamed, shrieked, and charged.

The Butcher's Nails screamed—the brainstem trembled—

The crimson beast roared in unison, tearing at reality, desperate to enter the material universe—as if eager to kill his son.

Then, then—

Then Korsakos dodged the still-partially-materialized Angron, aimed for the open bridge door, snatched up his axe, and vanished in a blur.

"."

Silence, dead and absolute, filled the bridge.

Korsakos's four servants huddled in the corner, bewildered and stunned by what they had witnessed.

Angron himself reached up with his crimson claw and scratched at the Butcher's Nails on his skull.

The mistress seated upon the Command Throne remained silent.

Angron's appearance would inevitably awaken the fury within the World Eaters, stir the Butcher's Nails in their skulls.

Yet Korsakos—despite the Butcher's Nails operating at full power—had fled without hesitation.

The mistress suddenly felt her earlier contempt for Korsakos had been mistaken.

To endure the full force of the Butcher's Nails and Angron's presence, to flee without pause, even pausing to snatch his axe before escaping—

This… this was an extraordinary talent!!

The mistress was momentarily dazed, but she did not invest further attention in Korsakos.

She turned to the crimson beast who had stepped fully into reality—the true master of the World Eaters Legion, the true lord of the Conqueror.

"My lord, I have been waiting."

The woman whispered, her body subtly tugging at the cables beneath her.

The beast's soul responded—she felt it—even bound in chains, he still answered her.

He had come to protect her.

Was it for her loyalty? Or for some possible friendship between them?

Her thoughts were tangled; much had slipped from memory—but still, instinctively, she asked:

"My lord, you've returned—where is Kain?"

"What shall we do? Find Kain? Wage another war? Or pursue the freedom you crave deep within your soul?"

The beast's only reply was a roar—he stepped forward with his other foot—

But he failed. A force halted him, barred him.

That force did not come from resistance within reality—but from within the Warp.

"No."

A low growl issued from behind the beast—from the blood-hazed realm of the Warp.

"This is not the war I left for you."

"Return!!"

The beast roared in fury, chains tightening around his neck—he struggled, he fought, it was useless.

He was dragged back into the deep, blood-hazed, brass domain, filled with countless arenas.

Like a gladiator dragged back into his cage.

"No!! You bastard! You demon! You slave-master!!"

The mistress screamed, yanking at the steel cables beneath her, at her own body fused to the Command Throne, trying to reach the Lord of the World Eaters.

"How dare you?! You've enslaved his soul—why bind his body too?!"

Her body leaned forward as far as it could, blood streaming from the points where her flesh merged with the throne.

Yet she remained impossibly distant from the crimson beast.

"Release his chains! You crimson hound!"

"Aren't you the Blood God? The God of War? Why lock him in your cage?! Let him out! Let him unleash his fury! You bastard!"

The mistress laughed maniacally—she sensed something:

"I understand. You fear. You fear losing Angron. You have only this one blade left!"

"Then how dare you call yourself God of War? Coward! Coward! Coward!!!"

The Warp rift vanished within the Conqueror; Angron was dragged back into the brass fortress. Darkness once more cloaked the bridge.

Korsakos's four servants remained too terrified to speak. Only the mistress screamed, cursed, wailed, and damned.

But what good did it do?

She cursed a god—a god who could not be defeated, the Blood God.

Her curses had no effect; her resistance was pitiful.

Like a slave who had never overcome his master.

Korsakos strained to suppress the fury in his mind, clinging to the barest thread of reason.

To hold reason within fury—that was his only advantage.

Why had this happened?

Korsakos angrily questioned himself: why had glory stood before him yet refused to bow?

Why was glory denied him? Why had brilliance slipped through his fingers?

Too many had warned him: don't reach too high, don't be reckless, be content with your station.

He had no exceptional talent, no peerless martial skill, no unyielding will, no Primarch's trust, no loyalty to the Emperor, no divine favor.

He had nothing—just an ordinary Astartes, destined to leave no name in this galaxy.

He didn't even deserve the honor of a common Astartes; the glory of the War Hounds had been forgotten, drowned in blood, transformed into World Eaters.

Kneel, Korsakos. Bow your spine, Korsakos. That's all you're good for.

Foolish, weak—you shouldn't resist. Be a slave.

Submit to power. Remain silent. Weak. Nameless. That is your fate.

Or better yet—just die. Die at Angron's hands.

No, no, no.

He would not die without earning glory.

He would not be a guest in this world—he would be its master. He would be a true World Eater.

But brief passion could not mend the weight of reality.

The entire Conqueror trembled. The entire Conqueror roared.

Rivets flew, steam burst, crewmen went mad with bloodlust—all screamed, all howled.

Kosalax seemed incredibly fragile within it.

But at that moment, a somber, icy yet strangely comforting prayer echoed through the darkness,

A woman's curses and roars rang out from the cabin, but were quickly silenced.

A grotesque, multi-limbed crimson beast emerged from the darkness, writhing and filling the entire corridor.

A bald man with runes carved into his skull chanted as he walked toward Kosalax,

With his chanting, the entire Conqueror seemed tamed, like a wild dog bound in chains.

"Who are you?" Kosalax gasped.

The bald man smiled warmly, with a reassuring charm,

"My friend, I have come here guided by the Blood God's direction."

"This ship must be the aid the Blood God promised me."

"As for me? I am a kind, gentle, good man."

(End of Chapter)