Chapter 182 Red Sand Remains

At the end of summer, when autumn is about to begin again, the night sky of Nuceria is dim and dark. The lights on the ground bake the bottom of the black sky from bottom to top to a deep red.

Outside the city of Desia, which has never been renamed, in the sanatorium on the back of the hill for gladiators and more wounded, the sound of water flowing quietly flows outside the window.

The broken pale yellow lights are reflected in the artificial stream, like the fragments of brass or tin foil falling into cold water, and are blown out of the Primarch's room.

Angron's fingers slid across the surface of the data board several times, and the rough calluses scraped against the center of the smooth screen shining in the dark. The thin and fragmented sound should have been obscured by the gurgling water outside the sanatorium, but the Primarch's extraordinary senses and chaotic heartbeats highlighted the existence of the writing sound.

It expanded in Angron's perception, became harsh, and gradually had a tearing sound like a knife cutting through cloth. Angron had heard similar noises before, when gladiators cut open each other's clothing that was stuck to their flesh and dried the blood from their wounds with fire. Then he heard a sigh, his own.

"I'm sorry for them..." The Lord of the Red Sand wrote a line with his fingers, using a rare language brought by his Terran veterans from the world where humans originated. Then he erased the line and revised his reply to Dorn: "I'm sorry for my mistake."

His choice of words was not a matter of literary refinement, and the entire difficult writing process of the reply was accompanied by his memories and reflections. When he received Dorn's letter, Angron could hardly believe what kind of accusation he had received.

World Eater, War Hound. Their acquaintance began on the Steadfast Resolution.

Those hands that awkwardly put themselves into the neat dresses, grabbed the weapons but stopped halfway when they thought they were attacked by the Primarch, and the stunned expressions like children when he hugged them, almost made Angron think that he would lead not a group of experienced warriors, but a group of children who had not been cared for and taught, eagerly surrounding their father, eager to compare who could show more trust and admiration.

Perturabo told him that these warriors did need to undergo Astartes transformation surgery from adolescence, which gave him an answer.

So Angron gave them the same care and tolerance in return. Let them retain the original combat organization that they disbanded by themselves - although this was also because he had no experience in commanding a large legion.

He adopted the name of the legion that Centurion Jaeger came up with happily, conveyed to them rather than forced them to accept their own ideas, encouraged them to be independent like true fighters, and not regard the Primarch as the only center of everything except the Emperor.

And the World Eaters performed so well.

These warriors who traveled to the edge of the galaxy from the core of the human empire countless light years away were not at all arrogant or cold, as Angron had once worried. They voluntarily integrated and approached the people of Nuceria.

They lived together, learned from each other, treated each other equally, and regarded his gladiator brothers and sisters as family.

Kahn took the lead in asking Angron whether some of Angron's mortal comrades would be allowed to visit the landing capsule and some ground vehicles on a limited basis. Children such as Yochuka were too young, so Captain Mago taught them what Skyhawks and War Dogs were, and how they should prepare to become space warriors. Apothecary Garlan Surak went deep into the red sand pits of many cities in Nuceria to investigate personally, and he then brought back chains and improved gladiatorial pits for the Legion.

"I thought that was enough." Angron wrote, and these words left a slightly burning pain on his fingertips. "I can feel their emotions, they love me and my companions, my home planet..."

He crossed out this paragraph again, realizing that he was blinded by emotions and immersed in false happiness.

"You showed me the truth I had been avoiding, my brother. They were hounds, warriors, before they met me."

The most common beasts that high-ranking riders put into the red sand arena were huge and fierce beasts, sometimes hyenas, sometimes giant dogs. They were equally docile when they cuddled under the golden stands.

"I pushed them too far." Angron wrote another line, watching the flashing dots on the datapad jump slowly. "I didn't pay enough attention to them."

The Twelfth Legion is the Emperor's Legion, and the Nucerians are Angron's Legion.

Rogal Dorn and Perturabo are brothers of the Twelfth Primarch, and the gladiators are Angron's brothers.

Perturabo was disappointed by this, and Angron, the self-righteous Angron, the self-conceited Angron, the blind Angron, did not see the hidden dangers behind it.

He slowed his breathing and heard the rain begin to fall outside the window at night. The cold wind from the mountains and the early autumn rain rolled into his window sill together, and his fingers were frozen stiff.

Angron put down the data tablet, unable to continue writing.

He closed his eyes, his eyelids blocking the light from the world, and the rich imagination in his soul immediately expanded these trivial sounds from the deep red firelight at the end of the night into a vivid image.

In the information sent to him by his brother Rogal Dorn, his brother's calm and harsh personality made him only objectively record the number of local humans who died in the recently attacked psychic star systems, the firepower and ammunition base consumed by the legion. This gave Angron even more immeasurable imagination space.

He saw visions of blood cascading from the fortress, human skulls, spines and rib cages becoming vessels for charred earth, chained men falling to tracks and steaming oil, twin torpedoes from vehicles tearing down settlements, and his sons in blue and white armor, bloodstained axes, killing without stopping.

This was all done by his World Eaters.

Angron wanted to open the window and let the rain in, soak him.

But he could not let the mortals who insisted on cleaning his room during the occasional stays in Desia, when he was away from his many affairs throughout Nuceria, add to their troubles.

He rose from his seat and left the room with a silence that did not match his size, walking through the corridors and into the rainy night of Nuceria, walking around the sanatorium called the Hospital.

The sons and daughters of Nuceria live here, he thought. They are tough, united, tortured, and unyielding. They were broken in the red sand, and stood up with difficulty relying on each other's support and involvement.

A gladiatorial fight was won, and a thin blood-red scar was added to the gladiator's waist. A gladiatorial fight was lost, and the black soil added to the scar changed the color of the long rope. His red rope and his companions' black ropes had the same essence, that is, a silent embrace of people with the same fate in the same cave. The rope of triumph connected everyone to each other as a whole, and they were intimate in this circle.

But what about outside the circle of black and red? Can the Nucerias and the Terrans truly become one?

The rain curtain became denser, and the water fell from the sky. Angron's sense of smell told him that there was a faint smell of blood hidden in the rain. The scenes of massacre in his imagination continued to flash before his eyes.

Rogal Dorn, his golden-haired brother, with his legendary golden skull hanging around his waist, anger hidden in his stern face, walking in the river of blood piled up by corpses, the background and details became clearer and clearer in his powerful thinking ability.

Angron closed his eyes, but the picture and smell were still there.

He shook his head and stepped back, retreating among the trees. The sanatorium, which had been expanded to almost half of the hill, shrank into a bright lamp in his eyes, and the lamp relied on the twinkling lights of fireflies in the windows to emit a complete light.

Angron walked around the hill and went to the other side of the hill. It should be dim and silent here. Because it was still late at night, and the horn of morning had not yet sounded.

In the future, the trainees who would join the XII Legion would build a training base on the other side of the mountain, just like the independent base given to the War Hounds by the Emperor in the galaxy. The difference is that the base here is located at the foot of the mountain where the Primarch's incubator landed, and also under the graves of countless skeletons who escaped from the arena but died here.

This double symbolism made everyone agree to the location of the base at the first time.

Angron was walking at first, and then he began to run, his feet landing in the muddy ground in the rainstorm, breaking branches and broken leaves, as if bones and flesh were wailing under his feet. He felt the coldness of this moment, wondering if Rogal Dorn was walking on the same ruins when he was composing his letter.

Crossing the valley and crossing over the ridge, darkness appeared in front of Angron. Their base was sleeping in the rainstorm. The metal and glass surfaces of some buildings vaguely reflected the light that could not be ignored. After the layers of transition and refraction of the rain curtain, a kind of unified faint red glow was also presented in the deep red warm light on the surface of Nuceria.

This is the background color of red sand, Angron thought, this is Nuceria. He knew Nuceria well enough, but he didn't know the Imperium of Man well enough.

He was still thinking about the World Eaters.

He could certainly finish his letter now, and order the Twelfth Legion to stop the slaughter.

But this would only solve a crisis of deep-seated conflicts. As for how to solve the root of everything, he couldn't decide yet.

Angron didn't want to hurt his own legion, but he couldn't stand them continuing to hurt others.

He stood in the rainstorm for a long time, and his blood and faint crying extended vaguely in the torrent of rain.

Angron didn't count the time, only knowing that it was late at night. He decided to stand here for a while until he thought things through, at least enough for him to finish his reply to Dorn.

If possible, he also hoped to write a letter to Perturabo at the same time.

The mysterious and hidden busyness of the Lord of the Fourth Legion and the secret commotion in his legion recently made Angron and Rogal Dorn consciously not to bother Perturabo too much, and try to solve the difficulties themselves. But sometimes, he thought he could trust his brother a little more.

A flash of light flashed in the base.

Angron was wiping away the raindrops that made his eyelashes heavy, trying to cross the thousands of tons of falling water and return to the sanatorium side.

Then he reacted.

The second light came on, short, tense, and fleeting, and closer to the edge of the base than the first.

When the third flash occurred, through the heavy rain curtain of the night, Angron saw the essence of the cold-toned light - it was a portable electric light that illuminated the night, and the pale light occasionally exposed through the gaps between the overlapping buildings in the base.

The fourth flash was completely close to the edge of the dark base in the rain. Judging from the trajectory, it was undoubtedly someone who was leaving the base during the late night rainstorm; and judging from the speed of the light beam, this was not a groping, but a fixed action that was close to being familiar with the route.

Angron's heart tightened quietly. This was an event that he had not expected, and no one had told him about it. If he had not happened to return to Desia today and happened to wander silently on this side of the mountain, when would he have discovered this abnormality? Would he have to wait for these people who came from nowhere to harm his brothers and sisters and his future offspring?

And his consciousness provided him with another possibility. That is, it was not accidental that this group of people moving out of the base acted in this way, and the base number was large enough for him to encounter today's unknown events.

He took off his outer robe that had become too heavy because of absorbing rain water, and felt that the robe had become a little sticky.

Angron threw off his robe and ran silently after the white light, feeling a little cold all over.

The distant light had silently slipped into the heavy rain from the base, and the white light became obvious and easy to track. Lightning revealed the darkness, and in the ensuing roars, the Primarch tried to cross the mountains as fast as possible to get closer to the light spot. The rainstorm rumbled and blinded his vision and hearing, but it could not cause any hindrance to the Primarch.

As he and the white light approached, the white light also approached its destination. It was heading towards the city of Desia, and Angron could not understand why.

He gritted his teeth and shook off the rain hitting his face with the posture of a giant beast shaking its head. The white light entered the long gray road at the gate of Desia, allowing Angron to see that it was a dozen figures who were traveling collectively on local transport vehicles. Since they were not using the equipment of space marines, their previous whereabouts could not be traced.

Near the city, Angron was close enough to them to report the names of each of them.

There were no young aspirants who would become space marines in the future. The defects on these people's bodies that were supplemented with metal proved that most of them were gladiators who had been freed from the red sand. There were also two Nuceria civilians who volunteered to join Angron's mortal army.

Angron relaxed a little bit, advising himself to guess that they might have other things that were not convenient to explain to others. He wished he knew the Nucerias, he wished they wouldn't hurt each other.

He followed them at a distance, through the rain, hoping to see the end of this.

The transport passed through the city gates, past the market, past the residential areas, and passed through the streets. A piece of cloth that shielded the sun in the daytime was blown off in the rain and fell into the mud. The white light did not stay.

Angron heard his heartbeat in the rain. A chain was wrapped around it, tightening and sending pain.

He followed the white light until it stopped, and the lights in the open-air buildings were bright, emitting a deep red light so close to the original red light in the town.

There were bursts of laughter in the rain, a thicker smell of blood, and wails that swirled like the wind.

These were not illusions. He was wrong.

Angron's nerves had never been so tense, like molten copper thrown into a rainstorm, solidified in the most brutal way.

He was not angry, did not roar, could not shout. He was just in pain. Just shocked. And it was clear.

He walked towards the building, the arc wall was so familiar to him. His life was bound here until he got his liberation and salvation. To this day, he still doesn't want to recall everything that happened here, the maggot eyes, sulfuric acid, chains, the cries of mutual slaughter, the charred fangs and broken throats, the enemies he had to strangle to death, and the countless ironies and absurd flowers that fell from the sky between the flesh and the soil...

The rain turned into sharp fragments, cutting his skin and making a harsh sound. He walked towards the building that should be sealed, thinking of the face of the first Huozan gladiator who persuaded to keep this place, who had lost half of his lower jaw.

This is the Red Sand Pit.

The moment he stepped into the main gate, the audience burst into applause, and there was a shadowy howl of revenge piercing from the shadows, so sharp that it didn't sound like a living person.

In the red sand soaked by the rainstorm, a former high-ranking rider had just had his head chopped off. The head flew through the air, with a bunch of butcher's nails stuffed into it in the crudest way.

Rain curtains fell from the clouds in all directions in the light. The color of the rain was light red.