My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 422: I Want Them All
"Die!!!"
Flames burst forth. Gorefather carved an arc through the air, and blood splashed outward with the swing. Several thin red streaks appeared across Angron's cheek.
The scarlet creature's head spun away.
Angron panted, the chainaxe in his hand roaring in rhythm with his breathing.
At this moment, he stood in a place that resembled hell itself.
Blazing fire licked out from every joint between the structures. Thick black smoke rolled through the air. The blood flowing across the ground was being scorched by the heat, releasing a foul stench.
The head that had just been severed had been deliberately placed by the hatchway, its eyes still open. On the walls, blood had been smeared into a blasphemous eight-pointed symbol.
In an incredibly short time, this place had become somewhere that could only be described as hell.
Behind him, Angron heard Guilliman's footsteps hesitate.
The Lord of the Red Sands took a deep breath of the air here. The scorching heat and the coppery stench of blood burned down his throat.
"Heh." Angron chuckled softly.
Without hesitation, he walked toward the hatchway. The blood of his enemies stained his hands.
His massive palm slapped against the wall, smearing the blood and deliberately blurring the profane eight-pointed symbol.
"Not exciting enough. Not as thrilling as last time."
Guilliman looked toward Angron. The front half of Angron's body had disappeared into the darkness, his tone casual and unconcerned.
But what the Lord of Macragge could not see was Angron's face in the darkness—twisted with pain, eyes wide with rage.
Khârn and another World Eater shook the chunks of flesh from their chainaxes and, without hesitation, followed Angron onto the ship.
From the darkness came Angron's quiet voice.
"…Guilliman, you can still make a choice."
Roboute Guilliman tightened his grip on the Gladius Incandor. He also took a deep breath as the foul wind passed by—thick with the stench of blood and something strange.
Now he understood.
That strange scent was the stench left behind by the use of psychic power.
Guilliman let out a short laugh. Without another word, he followed Angron and stepped into that blood-soaked hell.
If this was the truth humanity would face after the Astronomican had gone out, then Guilliman chose to face it directly.
He was the Lord of Macragge, a Primarch, the commander of the Imperium's greatest Legion—the Ultramarines.
He possessed the strength and the will to confront all of this.
More importantly—
He could not allow Angron to go to the battlefield alone.
Hearing Guilliman's footsteps follow closely behind him, Angron let out a sound that was half laughter, half roar.
"Good! Then let's go!"
He raised both axes.
This was Guilliman's choice, and Angron had never been a man for subtlety.
. . .
Another nightmare.
But the World Eaters never knew fear!
Lhorke roared as he slammed the Ultramarine in front of him aside. With his shoulder plate he pinned the bastard hard against the wall, then thrust his sword upward into the man's abdomen.
The sound of armor breaking rang out. Lhorke held his breath as the blade plunged deep into the enemy's organs.
Then he released the pressure and stepped back. As the blade was pulled free, blood and fragments of viscera burst out, splattering his white helmet crimson.
"Traitor!"
Lhorke raised his sword, preparing to cut off the Ultramarine's head—but in the next instant he stopped. Instead, he drew his gun and cleanly blew the man's head apart.
A request for reinforcements crackled through the comm channel, broken and intermittent.
Without hesitation, Lhorke began running in that direction.
That was where the World Eaters' gladiator arena was located.
Of course Lhorke knew what he would face there.
But he had long since stopped fearing it.
"In the name of Angron! For the Emperor!"
Lhorke shouted as he charged toward the arena.
. . .
Roboute Guilliman's eyes reflected a field of red.
Among a demonic horde made of writhing flesh and muscle, the blue-armored giant moved like a true god of slaughter. Each swing of the Gladius Incandor harvested blood and life in abundance.
Guilliman lowered his sword.
His noble face was tightly furrowed. Angron could feel the surge of anger boiling within him.
"…Such blasphemous creatures." Guilliman spoke hoarsely.
Even Roboute Guilliman could read, in these deliberately arranged decorations, the intolerable madness and evil they represented.
The two Primarchs, along with their small escort squad, rushed down the corridor.
Blood had been smeared everywhere, turning the entire passageway into something like a slaughterhouse.
Angron could smell the acrid scent of explosives after the blasts. Along their path, they saw that several critical sections of the World Eaters' warship had been destroyed—deliberately, and with careful precision.
The Lord of the Red Sands recalled the inexplicable hatred toward the Ultramarines that had been transmitted through his sons.
Angron clenched his teeth tightly.
He still trusted Guilliman, but… what exactly were those other sensations?
"Be careful. Don't let your anger take over."
Angron warned, feeling the tug of souls coming from his sons—it was the arena!
At a cross-shaped intersection, Angron suddenly turned without the slightest hesitation and ran toward the gladiator arena.
Guilliman followed behind him. But before rounding the corner, the Lord of Macragge instinctively glanced toward the opposite direction.
With the keen sight of a Primarch, Guilliman saw something in the darkness at the far end of the corridor.
An Ultramarine was gripping the corpse of a World Eaters crewman, carefully smearing something onto the wall with blood.
"Hey?!"
Guilliman immediately unleashed an unimaginable roar.
His mind buzzed violently.
Which Chapter did that warrior belong to? What was he doing?!
Had a traitor appeared among the Ultramarines?!
"What are you doing?!"
The Primarch's roar reached the far end in an instant.
The Ultramarine did not seem surprised at encountering a Primarch. Without hesitation, he slipped deeper into the darkness.
Guilliman felt as if all the blood in his body surged toward his brain—but at the same time, he felt terribly cold.
In that brief instant, countless possibilities flashed through Guilliman's mind.
And every single one of them pushed him toward the same decision.
After that moment of icy clarity, he felt his anger ignite like wildfire—
Anger at himself for failing to detect this earlier.
Anger at the possible corruption of his sons.
Anger at the unbearable reality.
Without hesitation, Guilliman turned and sprinted in the opposite direction from Angron—toward the fleeing Ultramarine.
"Sorry! Angron!!!"
It sounded like an apology for his reckless decision—
And perhaps also an apology for what the Ultramarine had done.
At this moment, the Primarch did not yet know about the Legion famous for infiltration and espionage, for embedding themselves within other Legions—
The Alpha Legion.
And at the same time, Roboute Guilliman did not possess the ability to identify Alpha Legion infiltrators hidden among his sons.
In another branch of fate, Guilliman had once spoken with several Alpha Legionnaires disguised as Ultramarines—and even in the moment before they opened fire, the Lord of Macragge had failed to identify them.
Angron could never abandon his sons in the arena.
And Roboute Guilliman could never abandon the chance to uncover what exactly that Ultramarine was doing.
And up until now, neither of them had encountered a sufficiently troublesome enemy aboard the World Eaters' ship.
So—
They split up.
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