My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 425: Angron Is Running
All of this was nothing more than a clumsy farce—one last, desperate attempt to struggle.
It could not even project much power.
. . .
Angron roared in fury, his bellow like a raging storm.
"Is this all the tricks you have?!"
The Lord of the Red Sands was engulfed in mist, hacking apart the monsters charging at him from within it. They seemed like illusions, yet also like beings that truly existed.
Drops of blood splashed across his face.
The daemonic tide surged forward, but before a Primarch they were nothing worth mentioning.
They were even weaker than what Angron had faced earlier within the Maelstrom.
Before it could rage in frustration and command its daemon host to attack Angron, the Lord of the Red Sands had already endured eight rounds of hallucinations.
Angron ignored them all. He would find his sons—even if it meant dying in battle.
The final daemon's head was severed. Angron strode into the sand of the arena—
And he saw an Ultramarine.
The Ultramarine stood there, larger than a normal Space Marine. His brilliant blue armor stood out sharply amid the surrounding red.
He was standing upon the corpses of the World Eaters.
In the next moment, the spinning Gorefather burst that head apart. The Ultramarine's head, split in half, flew into the air. In the frozen moment before it fell, the last thing reflected in the severed head's eyes was Angron standing at the arena gate, one hand raised.
At that moment, Angron felt an endless fury.
His sons had been butchered. Their dying agony crashed into him. He heard the World Eaters shouting of glory and loyalty in their final moments. He heard their dying screams.
Why?
Angron asked himself—why?
Why was it always him? Why was it always the World Eaters who had to endure all of this? Why? Why was it always like this?
The Primarch ran forward. The place was shrouded in blood-mist, yet there were no enemies.
Only the corpses of the World Eaters.
He stared at his sons in disbelief. Their bodies were broken, drained of blood. Trembling, Angron tried to reach out and close their unshut eyes.
"Seeing all this… I'm sorry, my brother."
A strange yet familiar voice sounded.
Angron turned his head and saw an unfamiliar giant.
His face was carved with scriptures, and his violet eyes were filled with sorrow.
Angron moved his cracked lips. He recognized the man—he had seen portraits of this brother before.
"Illusion. Tell me what you want."
Angron slowly stood. Blood dripped from the axe in his hand.
"Do you want to fight me?"
"No."
"Lorgar" said calmly, spreading his hands.
"I simply think you are suffering. All of this is meaningless for you."
Angron steadied his breathing, preparing for the next attack.
A counterfeit, he thought.
"From landing on Nuceria, to the Maelstrom, and finally to Macragge… this is too unfair for you."
"For all this suffering, you could have been freed. Your fate did not have to be so tragic."
Angron swung his axe at "Lorgar," but there was no sensation of striking a solid body. The blow passed through empty air.
This "Lorgar" was merely a projection.
Angron stared at the endlessly talking phantom and cautiously stepped back, preparing to leave.
"I can save you, brother." "Lorgar" said.
The Primarch's gaze lifted upward. Angron followed his line of sight—
He hadn't even noticed a sacrificial altar there before?!
At this very moment, several Ultramarines and Word Bearers stood upon it. They stood like corpses—like lifeless candleholders.
"Lorgar" spread his hands.
"The power of fate is always stronger than we imagine, Angron. I have come to deeply understand this."
"Lorgar" turned slightly. With patient curiosity, he looked into the depths of the blood mist.
From within it, Guilliman burst forth with sword raised.
"Guilliman?!"
Sword and axe collided with a thunderous crash. Sparks from the clashing metal burst into Angron's eyes.
Angron gritted his teeth.
What the hell is going on?!
The Guilliman he faced looked as though he had been driven mad with rage. His eyes burned with fury as he looked at Angron as if Angron had burned Ultramar itself.
It was clearly the Ultramarines who had killed his warriors!
Angron roared, knocking Guilliman's blade aside. He felt his blood beginning to boil unnaturally, rage urging him to raise his axe and strike.
The deaths of his sons provoked his emotions. The feelings stabbed into his brain like needles. Angron tried to pull back his reason, but it was not an easy task.
Bloody breath spilled from his mouth. Things were not as they seemed on the surface. He forced himself to calm down.
What should I do now? What should I do now?!
His soul was thrown into chaos by blazing flames, burning with unimaginable heat—
Angron remembered something.
Angron gave up taking the initiative to attack. He merely endured the strikes of the "Guilliman" before him.
He cast a deep look at the counterfeit Guilliman. He felt anger, resentment, humiliation.
He sensed the souls of his other sons—those still alive.
They needed him, and he could not abandon them like this.
Without glory, without dignity… Angron thought. His instincts rebelled against him, cursing him.
But there were still those who needed him—World Eaters, Hades, Guilliman… He could not fall into the enemy's trap again.
He remembered what the false Lorgar had said.
Why him? Angron thought. Why him? Why had the enemy always been watching him?
His reason pierced him. It felt absurd, yet he seemed to know what he had to do.
Angron thought: an enemy from a higher dimension sat upon its throne, trapping them with blood that could be found everywhere and with illusions—forcing them to slaughter one another inside the trap it had prepared.
It drew power from war and glory. Angron, you know this. You know it well—you know what you must do.
They had already stepped into its trap. Angron did not want to obediently walk onto the stage it had built for him.
Blood spilled from Angron's mouth. His vocal cords trembled.
You can do it, Angron. You can do it.
This isn't… this isn't what you originally wanted.
His soul trembled violently, raging. Finally, to convince himself, he thought of Hades.
During the time after leaving the Maelstrom, once he had been confirmed that he was capable of simple combat again, Angron had sparred with Hades once.
In the end, Hades had knocked Angron's battle-axe aside with his scythe—
Angron knocked aside the counterfeit Guilliman's short sword with his axe.
A strained smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. In the end, Angron still could not reach Hades's level—
"I surrender! Stop fighting!!!"
"Fighting you is boring. There is no glory in it, I will not continue this battle with you!"
In the next moment, Angron turned around and began to run.
It was the first time he had ever chosen to flee on his own.
No—Angron absurdly remembered Hades's rambling from before.
This is a strategic retreat, Angron judged.
The furious short blade slashed across his shoulder armor. Towering rage shrieked as it came after him, carrying a cry of collapse and despair. The fury of being mocked burned wildly. A roar erupted from the Blood Throne.
The constructed altar collapsed with a thunderous crash. Lorgar's phantom vanished with a shrieking scream.
Angron did not look back. He ran—running toward the direction of his living sons.
Because he knew he had won.
And he had successfully mocked that existence.
It was furious.
In the past, in the gladiator pits, they could only kill each other.
But on a real battlefield, slaughter was never the only choice.
Angron thought of this and burst into laughter. He felt an absurd pain as he sprinted forward—running out of the stage that had been built for him, running out of the destiny that had been prepared.
The raging tide of blood crashed against him, but Angron knew it was already futile.
It almost seemed funny to him: the first step to shattering the enemy was to shatter the convictions of his former self.
But he knew it was worth it. He knew he possessed a future more worthy of sacrifice.
His sons still needed him—not for him to die meaninglessly now.
In his vision, Angron saw Lhorke and the other World Eaters. They were struggling desperately against the Ultramarines—
Angron's pupils suddenly widened.
"GET OUT OF THE WAY!!!"
He roared, hurling Gorechild toward Guilliman.
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