Chapter 182 The red sand remains
At the end of summer when autumn is about to begin again, the night sky in Nuceria is dim and dark. The lighting near the ground bakes the bottom of the black sky into deep red from bottom to top.
Outside the city of Desia, which has not been renamed, in the sanatorium on the back of the hill provided for gladiators and more injured people, the sound of water flowed quietly outside the window.
Broken yellow light reflected in the artificial stream, like fragments of brass or tinfoil dropped into the cold water, was blown out of the primarch's room.
Angron's fingers scratched the surface of the data board several times, the rough calluses scratching the center of the smooth screen that shone in the dark, and the thin and broken sound should have been obscured by the gurgling water outside the nursing home. , but the primarch's extraordinary senses and chaotic heart sounds highlighted the existence of the sound of writing.
It expanded in Angron's perception, became harsh, and gradually acquired a tearing sound close to that of a knife cutting through cloth. In the past, Angron had heard similar sounds when the gladiators cut each other's flesh-adhered clothing and used fire to dry the blood on the wounds. Then he heard a sigh, his own.
"I feel sorry for them..." The Lord of Red Sand wrote a line of words with his fingers, using a rare language brought by his Terran veterans from the world where humans originated. Then, he erased this line and re-edited his reply to Donne: "I am sorry for my mistake."
His choice of words was by no means diction, and the whole reply was difficult The writing process is accompanied by his memories and reflections. When he received Dorn's letter, Angron could hardly believe the charges against him.
World Eaters, war hounds. Their acquaintance began on the ship Resolute.
Those who awkwardly fit themselves into the starched robes, the hands that stopped midway in grabbing the weapon when they mistakenly thought they were being attacked by the original body, and the expressions as stunned as children when receiving his embrace, Angron almost thought that what he was about to lead was not a group of experienced warriors, but a group of children who had not been cared for and taught. They eagerly surrounded their father, eagerly comparing who could show more trust. And admiration.
Perturabo gave him an answer when he told him that these warriors indeed needed to undergo Astartes transformation surgery from their youth.
So Angron returned the same care and tolerance to them. Let them retain the original combat organization that they themselves disbanded - although this was also because he had no experience in commanding large legions.
He adopted the name of the Legion that Centurion Jaeger had happily come up with, passing on to them rather than forcing them to accept his own ideals, encouraging them to be independent like true warriors, and not to regard the Primarch as the slayer of the Emperor. The only center of all things.
And the World Eaters performed so well.
These warriors who traveled from the core of the Human Empire countless light-years away to the edge of the Milky Way were not at all arrogant or cold-hearted as Angron once worried about. They voluntarily merged with the people of Nuceria and moved closer to each other.
They lived together, learned from each other, treated each other as equals, and considered his gladiator brothers and sisters to be family.
Kahn was the first to ask Angron if he would allow some of Angron’s mortal comrades to visit the landing module and some ground vehicles on a limited basis. The children such as Yochuka were too young, so Captain Margo taught them what heaven is. Hawks and Warhounds, how they prepare to become Space Marines. Apothecary Galan Sulak went deep into the red sand pits of many cities in Nuceria to personally investigate. He then brought back chains and improved gladiatorial pits to the legion.
“I thought that was enough,” Angron wrote, the words leaving a slight 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 falsehood. in happiness.
"You showed me the truth that I shunned, my brothers. They were hounds, warriors, before they saw me."
The most common things that high-level riders put into the red sand gladiatorial arena are huge and ferocious beasts, sometimes hyenas, sometimes giant dogs. They are equally docile as they nestle under the golden stands.
"I pushed them too far." Angron rewrote another line, watching the flashing light spots on the data pad jump slowly. "I don'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 the brothers of the Twelfth Primarch, and the Gladiator is the brother of Angron.
Perturabo was disappointed by this, but Angron, the self-righteous Angron, the self-righteous Angron, the blind Angron, did not see through the hidden dangers behind this.
He slowed his breathing and heard the night outside the window starting to rain. The cold wind falling from the mountains and the early autumn rain rolled into his window sill, and his fingers were frozen stiff.
Angron put down the datapad, unable to continue writing.
He closed his eyes, his eyelids blocking the light the world gave him, and the rich imagination in his soul immediately expanded these trivial sounds from the crimson fire at the end of the night into a vivid image.
In the message sent to him by his brother Rogal Dorn, this brother's calm and severe personality allowed him to only record the number of local humans who died in the recently attacked psychic system in an extremely objective manner. , the base amount of firepower and ammunition consumed by the legion. On the contrary, this gave Angron even more immeasurable imagination space.
He saw phantoms of blood flowing like waterfalls from the fortress, human skulls, spines, and chests turning into vessels of burnt earth, and chained men falling to the tracks and steaming oil. In the fog, the vehicle's twin lasers destroyed the inhabited area, while his descendants in blue and white armor, their giant axes stained with blood, continued to kill.
This was all done by his World Eaters.
Angron wanted to open the window and let the rain pour in and wet him.
But during the time when he occasionally returned to live in the city of Desia from his many and various affairs throughout Nuceria, mortals would insist on cleaning his room for him, and he could not let the heavy rain The stagnant water brought added to their troubles.
He stood up from his seat, left the room with a noise that was incompatible with his size, walked through the corridor, stepped into the rainy night of Nuceria, and walked around the sanatorium called the hospital.
The sons and daughters of Nuceria live here, he thought. They are tough, united, enduring hardships and unyielding. They were broken in the red sand, and then stood up with difficulty relying on mutual support and involvement.
A gladiatorial battle was won, and a thin blood-red scar was added to the gladiator's waist. A battle was lost, and the black soil added to the scar discolored the long rope. His red rope has the same essence as the black ropes of his companions, a silent embrace of those who share the same fate in the same cave. The rope of triumph connects all to one another, and in this circle they are intimately connected.
But what about outside the circle of black and red? Can Nucerians and Terrans truly be one with each other?
The rain curtain becomes denser, and the water falls from the Tianhe River. Angron's sense of smell told him that there was a faint smell of blood lurking in the rain. Images of the carnage he imagined continued to flash before his eyes.
Rogal Dorn, his golden white-haired brother, with his legendary and strange golden skull hanging on his waist, with anger hidden in his cold face, walking in a river of blood piled up with corpses, with the background The details become clearer as he thinks about them with his powerful thinking ability.
Angron closed his eyes, but the image and smell were still there.
He shook his head and backed up, retreating through the trees. The enlarged sanatorium, which almost filled half of the hill, shrunk in his eyes to a bright light, which was illuminated by the glow of the fireflies dotted in the windows.
Angron walked around the hill and towards the other side of the mountain. It should be dark and quiet here. Because it is still late at night and the morning trumpet has not yet sounded.
In the future, trainees who will join the Twelfth Legion will build a training base on the other side of the mountain, just like the independent bases given by the Emperor to the War Hounds in the galaxy. The difference is that the location of the base here is at the foot of the mountain where the primarch's conservation capsule landed at that time, and also under the tomb of countless skeletons who escaped from the arena but died here.
This dual symbolic meaning made everyone agree on the construction address of the base immediately.
Angelong was walking at first, and then he started running. His feet landed in the mud of the heavy rain, breaking branches and broken leaves, as if bones and flesh were wailing under his feet. He felt the coldness of this moment and wondered whether Roger Dorn was walking on the same ruins when he composed his letter. Through the valley and over the ridge, darkness appeared before Angron's eyes. Their base was sleeping in the heavy rain. The metal and glass surfaces of some buildings vaguely reflected light that could not be ignored, passing through the layers of the rain curtain. Due to layer transition and refraction, the deep red warm light on Nuceria's surface also presents a weak red glow that is unified with each other.
This is the background of red sand, Angron thought, this is Nuceria. He knew enough about Nuceria, but not enough about the Imperium of Man.
He was still thinking about the World Eaters.
Of course he could finish his letter now and explicitly ask the Twelfth Legion to stop the massacre.
But this only solved a crisis where deep-seated contradictions spilled over. As for how to solve the root of everything, he still couldn't decide.
Angron didn't want to hurt his own legion, but he couldn't bear them continuing to hurt others.
He stood for a long time in the heavy rain, his blood and faint wail lingering in the torrent of rain.
Angron did not calculate the time, he only knew that it was late at night. He decided to stand here for a while longer, until he thought things through, at least clear enough for him to finish his reply to Donne.
If possible, he would also like to write a letter to Perturabo at the same time.
The recent mysterious and hidden busyness of the Lord of the Fourth Legion and the secretive commotion in his legion have made Angron and Rogal Dorn consciously not to disturb Perturabo too much. Solve difficulties on your own. But sometimes, he thought he could trust his brother a little more.
A light flashed in the base.
Angron is wiping away the raindrops that have made his eyelashes heavier, planning to pass through the thousands of tons of falling water to return to the sanatorium.
Then he reacted.
The second light came on, short, tense, fleeting, and closer to the edge of the base than the first light.
When the third flash occurred, through the heavy rainstorm curtain of the dark night, Angron saw clearly the essence of the cold-colored light - it was a portable electric lamp for lighting in the dark night, overlapping at the base In the buildings, the pale light is occasionally exposed through the gaps in the buildings.
The fourth flash was completely close to the edge of the dark base in the heavy rain. Judging from the trajectory, this was undoubtedly someone leaving the base during the late night heavy rain; and judging from the moving speed of the beam, this was not an exploration, but a close approach. Familiar fixed actions.
Angron's heart clenched quietly. This was an event that was completely unexpected to him and no one had ever told him about it. If he hadn't happened to return to Desia City today and happened to be wandering silently on this side of the mountain, when would he have discovered such an anomaly? Should he wait for these people from nowhere to harm his brothers, sisters and his future heirs?
And his consciousness provided him with another possibility. That is to say, it was no accident that this group of people moving out from the base acted like this. The base was large enough for them to encounter today's unknown events.
He took off his robe, which had become too heavy due to absorbing rainwater, and felt that the robe had become a little sticky.
Angron threw down his robe and ran after the white light silently, feeling a little chilly all over.
The distant light had slipped silently from the base into the heavy rain, and the white light had become obvious and easy to follow. Lightning broke through the darkness, and in the ensuing roar, the primarch crossed the mountains as quickly as possible and approached the point of light. The heavy rain rumbled, blinding his vision and hearing, but it was unable to cause any hindrance to the Primarch.
When he and the white light approached, the white light also approached its destination. The direction it was heading towards was within the city of Desia, and Angron couldn't figure out why.
He gritted his teeth and shook away the rain that hit his face like a giant beast shaking his head. The white light entered the long gray road at the gate of Desia City, and Angron saw that it was a dozen figures who were moving together in a local transport vehicle. Since they did not use Space Marine equipment, their previous whereabouts could not be traced.
Near the outside of the city, Angron got close enough to them that he could name each of them.
There are no young aspirants among them who will become Space Marines in the future. The metal defects on these people's bodies prove that most of them are gladiators freed from the red sand. The other two volunteered to join the Angron mortal army. of Nucerian civilians.
Angron relaxed slightly and advised himself to guess that they might have other matters that were not convenient to explain to others. He wished he knew the Nucerians, and he wished they would not hurt each other.
He followed him from a distance, through the heavy rain, hoping to see the outcome of this matter.
The transport vehicle passes through the city gate, crosses the market, passes through residential areas and passes through the streets. A piece of cloth that provided shade during the day was blown off during the heavy rain and fell into the mud. The white light did not stay.
Angron heard his own heartbeat in the rain. A chain wrapped around it, tightening and stinging.
He followed the white light until it stopped. The lights in the open-air building were bright, and the deep red light emitted was so close to the original red light in the town.
Bursts of laughter came from the rain curtain, a thicker smell of blood and wailing that lingered like a long wind.
These are not illusions. He was wrong.
Angron's nerves have never been so tense, like molten copper thrown into a rainstorm, solidifying in the most brutal way.
He is not angry, he does not roar, he cannot roar. He was just miserable. Just shocked. There is also clarity.
He walked towards the building. The arc wall was so familiar to him. His life was here in bondage until he obtained his deliverance and deliverance. To this day, he still doesn't want to think about everything that happened here, the maggot eyes, the sulfuric acid, the chains, the cries of killing each other, the burnt tusks and broken throats, the enemies he had to strangle to death in the palm of his hand, Countless ironic and absurd flowers falling from the sky between flesh and earth...
The rain turned into sharp fragments, cutting his skin and making a harsh sound. He walked towards the building that was supposed to be sealed, and thought of the face of the Hozan gladiator who had lost half of his jaw, who was the first to persuade this place to be preserved.
This is a deep pit of red sand.
The moment he stepped in from the main entrance, the audience burst into cheers, and a vague vengeful howl pierced from the shadows, so sharp that it didn't look like a living person.
In the red sand soaked by heavy rain, a former high-level rider had his head chopped off. The head flew through the air, with a bunch of butcher's nails stuffed into it in the most brutal way.
Rain curtains fell from the clouds in all directions in the light. The color of the rain is light red.
(End of this chapter)