Chapter 163 This Is Not the Nail

"What nails?" Perturabo asked subconsciously. Then, following Angron's gaze, he suddenly touched the steel cable above his head, "What do you mean?"

"That's not the Butcher's Nail..." Dorn coughed to clear the ashes from his mouth, and worked hard to dig himself and his golden armor out of the wall.

Angron obviously realized that something was wrong. The anger and bloody aura quickly faded away, and the guardian's resolute aura dissipated - and the cognition he used to maintain the coherence of his self-cognition when he woke up also ceased. He is no longer a fighter on the red sand. He is a completely new individual to the circumstances in which he finds himself.

Angron reached out to help Dorn and moved his lips to Dorn's calm "thank you", not knowing what to say.

The silvery ceiling, the clean floor, the appropriate temperature, and the faint smell of disinfectant made Angron extremely unfamiliar with everything in this room, which even caused an uncontrollable panic.

He vaguely recalled the beginning of everything. He seemed to be in a cold and clean cylinder, wrapped in some kind of hard metal, falling among the mountains in a bumpy state.

"That's the data cable that our brother Perturabo studied himself." Dorn said, "It's not the Butcher's Nail."

Although no one had yet told him what the Butcher's Nail was, Perturabo could still guess some details from the faces of Dorne who had interacted with the Nucerians.

"Perhaps our attire caused you to misunderstand, brother." He said as calmly as possible, "We are both leading soldiers in the war. The blood on this robe comes from you, and I treated some wounds for you. I am Perturabo and he is Rogal Dorn."

"So you... nailed these things into your brain?" Angron asked in disbelief.

The pipeline that is very similar to the Butcher's Nail always evokes his worst associations, control, humiliation, madness, these are all the concepts he can get from this device.

"Your description is not wrong."

said Perturabo. He untied the loops of cables and pulled one out, holding it in his hand to show Angron the harmlessness of the wires. It is best to use auxiliary tools to remove the cables one by one. Forcibly removing them all will cause severe sensory disturbances, but it is still possible to remove them one at a time.

"But I think protection rather than harm is the original intention of this set of hardware templates. No one except our enemies will be harmed by these cables."

Angron shook his head, still unable to accept it.

The first question he asked had nothing to do with the three Primarchs present: "Where is the old warrior with whom I was wrestling?"

"Seriously injured, not life-threatening. He is sleeping." Dorn said, his steady tone had a special calming effect. "We imprisoned the nobles and gave the remaining gladiators a temporary rest in the palace."

Angron closed his eyes, leaned his back against a solid wall, bowed slightly, and tried his best to remove the battle-prepared posture he had been accustomed to for a long time, and relax his muscles. There was a sense of relief about him.

I don't know what he thought of, but a layer of shuddering disgust suddenly appeared on Angron's face. The original body quickly suppressed his uncontrollable emotions and forced a forced smile.

"Are you demigods?" he asked hoarsely.

Both primarchs were stung by this question at the same time. They each had the experience of being widely admired by some kind of alien creature.

"We are Primarchs." Rogal Dorn quickly answered, emphasizing their species classification. "We are people created by the Emperor of Mankind to fight for the future of mankind. The Emperor opposes any religious rhetoric and deification. Individual behavior…”

"First, we are your brothers." Perturabo interrupted Dorn, for every time the word "Emperor" was mentioned, a tiny twitch appeared in Angron's facial muscles. "We are scattered across the galaxy, but we come from the same source. We need you."

Angron listened to their words quietly, blood oozing from his open wound.

"You are demigods," he said, and Perturabo was not sure if there was any irony in the gladiator's assertion. "And I am a slave. Do you need me? What do you like about me?"

"We have only spoken for five minutes, brother," said Perturabo. "We have only had time to see that you are a warrior and a kind guardian."

"Where do you need me to go?"

"In the Milky Way."

said Perturabo, wondering whether he should persuade Dorn to fetch his translator-talker, lest he stand here as a stake with his golden armor that stung his new brother's eyes.

"For the unity and well-being of all mankind, we want more planets to join our father's country. Of course, Nuceria belongs to you. You can deal with this decadent and barbaric world according to your own wishes."

"This world belongs to me?" Angron tried to confirm.

"It is your home planet." Perturabo nodded and stretched out his hand to Angron.

"Thank you." Angron said, his voice low and without raising his hand, "But... I'm sorry. I need to stay."

He did not respond to Perturabo's overtures. This surprised Perturabo, and a surge of anger rose in the sky - not against Angron, but against the slave owners on this planet. He understood Angron's concerns very quickly. After all, it was not difficult to imagine a gladiator's resentment towards powerful people and worries about his companions.

What did these slave owners do to his brothers!

Then, the anger suddenly weakened abnormally, and in Angron's gentle eyes that contradicted his fierce appearance, Perturabo was shocked to see a state of guilt and boredom.

Angron raised his arm and held his hand. The two palms of similar size became rough for different reasons. In the subtle expression on Angron's face, Perturabo knew that this brother also understood him. Their keen perception of each other far exceeded any blood or psychic limitations.

And this also made Perturabo realize that the delayed handshake only symbolized a private apology, not a promise of return.

"You described a beautiful vision, Perturabo, Rogal Dorn. I... thank you for everything you have done. But I belong here, and I can't leave my brothers and sisters."

Angron let go of Perturabo, his uneasiness and fatigue formed a tearing feeling that was both vivid and dead. His life seemed to have crossed the end in a blazing burning, and now he stayed only to make up for the regrets of his life.

"You don't want to join us," Perturabo repeated, not knowing what else to say.

Angron spoke, his fingers holding his weapon visibly spasming.

"You are the ones who lead the troops to war," he said, his sad eyes devoid of malice, standing here half ghost and half warrior, torn in half by his emotional disgust for power and his rational gratitude, and a host of mixed resistances fused into his scarred body - his experience in the arena had changed him forever.

"Your description of conquest glorifies the act of inflicting violence on others, of bending free will to power. I can't do that, I'm sorry," Angron said, pausing. "I want to stay and take my brothers and sisters to kill those nobles of Nuceria who deserve to be killed."

Perturabo wanted to find a reason to correct him, but his tongue was pressed against the roof of his mouth and could not move. He quickly thought of a solution, perhaps he could wait until Angron fulfilled his wish before returning to Nuceria. But no matter from which angle, this method is terrible.

"Okay." Dorn suddenly spoke in his silence. Perturabo immediately became nervous. He could trust Rogal Dorn in everything except conversation.

Dorn seemed unaware of Perturabo's emotions, and Angron's wide eyes did not stop him from saying the second half of his words.

The white-haired primarch said calmly: "While you are fighting and killing Nucerias, we will build a rear civilian base for you, optimize the civic infrastructure, and build more civilian houses. Perturabo and I both have rich experience."

"But you..." Angron was stunned.

In his concept, generals and engineers have nothing to do with each other, and two demigods as tall as him obviously want to invite him to be a general.

He could certainly feel the pure kindness of the two people, and this warm emotion exuded a glimmer of relief. But his boredom with fighting and conquering had long been accumulated to the peak, and it broke out when he jumped onto the stands and killed the last dignitary present.

Emperor, he noticed this word. Fighting for the imperial power is nothing more than being a more glamorous slave in a larger arena. He couldn't accept it, not to mention that his real family was in Nuceria?

But Rogal Dorn announced so casually that he would stay, and it sounded like he was not here to fight, but to... build houses?

Did the Emperor have any personal additional clauses to the definition of a general?

In his long surprise, Dorn finally showed a little confusion.

He asked calmly: "Why are you staring at me, brother? In the conversation just now, you didn't mention that we needed to leave. After comprehensive consideration, I think sending a construction team is the right choice."