Chapter 163 This is not that nail
“What nail?” Perturabo asked subconsciously. Then, following Angron's line of sight, he suddenly touched the steel cable above his head, "What do you mean?"
"That's not the Butcher's Nail..." Dorn coughed. He dropped the ashes from his mouth and worked hard to dig himself and the golden armor out of the wall.
Angron obviously also realized that something was wrong. The anger and bloody aura quickly faded away, and the guardian's resolute aura dissipated - the recognition he used to maintain the continuity of his self-cognition when he woke up. Zhi also terminated together. 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 way.
"That's the data cable that our brother Perturabo studied himself." Dorn said, "It's not the Butcher's Nail."
Although no one has told him what a Butcher is yet. Nail, Perturabo could still guess some details from the faces of Dorne who had communicated with the Nucerians.
"Perhaps our clothes have misunderstood you, brother." He said as calmly as possible, "We are both leading soldiers in the war. The blood stains on this robe come from you. I am You tended to some wounds. I am Perturabo, and this 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.”
Perturabo said. 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 disassemble the cables one by one. Forcibly unplugging 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 creating this set of hardware templates. No one will be hurt by these cables except our enemies.”
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 who fought with me?"
"Seriously injured, not life-threatening, and sleeping. ." Dorn said, his steady tone had a special calming effect. "We imprisoned the nobles and let the remaining gladiators rest temporarily in the palace."
Angron closed his eyes, pressed his back against a solid wall, bowed slightly, and tried his best to move away from him He relaxed his muscles in the battle-ready posture he had long been accustomed to. There was a sense of relief about him.
I don’t know what he thought of, but a layer of trembling 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.
The two original bodies 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, "created by the Emperor of Mankind to fight for the future of mankind. The Emperor objected Any religious rhetoric and deification of individuals..."
"First of all, we are your brothers," Perturabo interrupted Dorn every time the word "Emperor" was mentioned. , Angron's facial muscles will have a tiny twitch. "We are scattered across the galaxy, but we come from the same origin. 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. You need me? What do you like about me?"
"We have only been talking for five minutes, brother," said Perturabo. "We have only had time to see that you are a slave." A warrior, and a benevolent guardian."
"Where do you want me to go?"
"In the galaxy," Perturabo said, wondering whether he should persuade Dorn to go. Get his translator-talker, lest the latter stand here as a stake with his golden armor that stings 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, this anger suddenly weakened abnormally. In the gentle eyes that were contrary to Angron's fierce appearance, Perturabo was shocked to see a state of guilt and boredom coexisting.
Angron raised his arm and held his hand. The two palms of similar size were roughened for different reasons. From the subtle look on Angron's face, Perturabo knew that this brother actually understood him. Their keen awareness of each other goes far beyond the limitations of any bloodline or psychic ability.
And this also made Peturabo understand that the delayed handshake only symbolized a personal apology, not a promise to return.
"You have described a beautiful vision, Perturabo, Rogal Dorn. I... thank you for everything you have done. But I belong here, and I cannot live without my brothers and sisters. Go.”
Angron let go of Perturabo, his restlessness and weariness forming a torn feeling that was both vivid and dead. His life seems to have passed the end in a fiery burning, and he is staying now just to make up for the regrets he had during his lifetime.
"You don't want to join us." Perturabo repeated, not knowing what else to say.
When Angron spoke, the fingers holding his weapon visibly spasmed.
"You are the ones who lead the troops to fight." He said, there was no malice in his sad eyes. Standing here is a combination of half ghost and half soldier, always emotionally disgusted with power. Torn in half with rational gratitude, in addition to many mixed resistance emotions fused into his scarred body-the experience in the gladiatorial arena changed him forever.
"Your description of war glorifies the act of inflicting violence on others and subjugating free will to power. I can't do that, I'm sorry." Angron said, pausing. one time. "I want to stay and lead my brothers and sisters to kill those worthy of death among the nobles of Nuceria."
Perturabo tried to find a reason to correct him, but his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth, making it difficult to move. He quickly thought of a solution. Perhaps he could wait for Angron to fulfill his wish before returning to Nuceria. But from every angle, this approach sucks.
"Okay." In his silence, Donne suddenly spoke. Perturabo tensed immediately, he could trust Rogal Dorn with anything but dialogue.
Dorn seemed unaware of Perturabo's emotions, and Angron's wide eyes did not stop the second half of his sentence.
The White-haired Primordial said calmly: "When you kill the Nucerians in the war, we will build a rear civilian base for you, optimize the civil infrastructure, and build more civilian houses. Petu Both Labo and I have rich experience."
"But, you..." Angron was stunned.
In his conception, generals and engineers had nothing to do with each other, and two demigods as tall as him clearly wanted to invite him to become a general.
Of course he could feel the pure kindness of the two, and this warm emotion exuded a glimmer of pain relief. But his tiredness of fighting and conquering had long since reached its peak, and it exploded when he jumped into the stands and killed the last dignitary present.
Emperor, he noticed the word. Fighting for 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 in such an understatement that he would stay, and it sounded like he was not going to fight, but to... build a house?
Does the emperor have any personal additional terms for the definition of general?
In his long astonishment, Donne finally showed a hint of confusion.
He asked calmly: "Why are you staring at me, brother? In the conversation you just had, you didn't mention that we needed to leave. After comprehensive consideration, I think sending the construction team is the right choice. ”
(End of this chapter)