Chapter 526: The Lord of Red Sands

Cold, cruel,

the Emperor's fleeting emotion had genuinely reached Angron.

Angron, in terror, realized that though his heart brimmed with hatred for the Emperor,

when the Emperor revealed genuine sincerity, deep resignation and pain, Angron instinctively felt sorrow.

One might even say, Angron felt a flicker of "love" for a father.

This was unthinkable—the Emperor was the man Angron hated, yet Angron had nearly been seduced by his spirit, instinctively drawn to love him.

Only when the Emperor spoke, declaring he wished Angron to become his tool once more, did Angron snap back to clarity.

Everything the Emperor had just shown was merely because such displays were more efficient, more advantageous for humanity.

Every word he spoke to Angron treated him as a tool—and a repaired tool at that.

His view of Angron had not changed in ten thousand years: Angron was once a broken tool, now he was a repaired one, nothing more.

"False Emperor!!!"

Angron's inner coldness drove him to growl at the Emperor:

"My answer is this: I will never be your slave!"

"You forged me as a slave—and yet you expect me to serve you?!"

The corpse stared at Angron, its hollow eyes revealing no emotion.

"I never saw you as a slave. You are a tool."

"My original purpose in shaping you was to ensure your brothers and I could become worthy tools."

"You can sense the emotions of others, good or bad, and you can dispel them."

"Pain, pride, doubt, hesitation, arrogance, stubbornness—you can erase them all."

"Had you not been broken, Fulgrim, Mortarion, Perturabo… many Primarchs would not have fallen, and I would not have hesitated so many times during the Great Crusade."

"Alas, the gods deemed your existence an obstacle to their corruption of the other Primarchs, and they twisted fate to make you a slave."

A thousand voices intertwined, the Emperor's tone nearly flat as he corrected Angron:

It was the gods who turned Angron into a slave; the Emperor never saw him as one.

Angron was merely a tool, and the Emperor wished him not to overthink it.

Angron's eyes bulged—had it not been for the Peach Boy dumpling suppressing him, he would have lunged forward and snapped the Emperor's neck.

"I know—you do not hate me. Not you. You no longer possess the function of hatred."

"It is humanity that hates me. How many did I kill ten thousand years ago? How many worlds did I slaughter?"

The Lord of Red Sands bit his teeth together and demanded:

"You care nothing for me—you see me as a tool. Then what of the people?"

"The souls of the dead hate me. Those who escaped my hands still curse me."

"When they see me return to the Empire, what will they feel?"

"It does not matter. You were never respected by mortals ten thousand years ago." The Emperor's voices overlapped in reply: "What matters is that in my prophecy, the Red Angel will guide humanity toward its future."

This was the prophecy the Emperor had made earlier in his conversation with Zhou Yun.

In this prophecy, the Red Angel Angron would be the pivotal point guiding the fate of the galaxy.

"I know nothing of the galaxy's fate," Angron replied coldly.

"My own fate has only two paths."

"Either you execute me, or I will go to the planet with the most slaves, lead them in rebellion against their masters, until I destroy everything."

The moment Angron finished speaking, he fell silent.

Then the Emperor also seemed to pause.

Both turned sharply to look at Zhou Yun, sitting in the corner, munching on a dorayaki, watching them argue.

They had just remembered.

Angron's control lay in Zhou Yun's hands.

The Peach Boy dumpling was his artifact.

Whether to kill Angron or use him—this choice belonged not to Angron, nor to the Emperor, but solely to Zhou Yun.

"And you?"

Angron's voice was hoarse:

"What kind of Divine Lord are you? Are you as cruel as the Emperor? As without choice?"

"I am not a god," Zhou Yun said, shoving the dorayaki into his mouth, staring at Angron.

He was indeed thinking—how could Angron possibly guide the galaxy's fate?

Angron was no Sanguinius or Kor Phaeron, possessing no extraordinary prophetic ability.

What the Emperor had given him was, fundamentally, the ability to heal minds.

How could such an ability guide the galaxy's future?

After a moment's thought, Zhou Yun sensed he might have fallen into a cognitive trap.

Perhaps the key lay not in Angron's ability, but in Angron's own… value?

The Emperor likely held thoughts similar to Zhou Yun's.

His earlier words, cold and heartless, seemed meant to push Angron back into the Empire's service.

Yet he spoke too bluntly—as if deliberately prodding Angron toward the alternative choice, urging him to place his hope in Zhou Yun.

In Zhou Yun's view, there was never truly a choice to reintegrate Angron into the Empire.

The Peach Boy dumpling Kaen gave Angron had a time limit—only thirty minutes of effect.

The unlimited-duration Peach Boy dumpling was terrifyingly expensive.

Though other methods existed to maintain control over Angron, none were as reliable as the dumpling.

Better to…

"I have a middle path."

Zhou Yun's lips curled slightly: "I can let Angron die, ending your bitter life."

He glanced at Angron, then turned to the Emperor: "Or I can let Angron contribute his value to the Empire, to humanity."

"Angron," Zhou Yun smiled, "will you enter my bag?"

Angron froze, then after a moment, sensed Zhou Yun's inner thoughts, perceived his emotions, and understood the general function of the four-dimensional pocket on his belly.

A faint smile touched the Lord of Red Sands' lips.

This choice, in his view, was far better.

Though he did not know where the bag led, to Angron, even death was preferable to being the Emperor's tool in this world.

"I accept." For the first time in his life, the Lord of Red Sands chose his own fate—even if that fate was total annihilation, Angron accepted it.

The Lord of Red Sands stepped forward, standing before Zhou Yun.

Zhou Yun nodded slightly, seized Angron's arm, and pulled him into the four-dimensional pocket.

(End of Chapter)