Warhammer: I don't want to become a stinky can!

The drop of blood fell with him.

Amidst thunderous cheers, the guest from outer space leaped down from the platform, tracing an arc.

His figure crashed heavily to the ground, splashing up bursts of red sand.

As the uninvited guest approached, nails clanged, and Angron let out a twitching laugh, blood flowing freely.

"What are you going to do, slave owner?"

However, his opponents ignored his taunts—

Kahn slammed the chainsaw axe into the ground, gripping the handle with one hand.

"boom!"

He knelt down.

The sleek power armor slammed into the mud, splattering blood.

The cheers abruptly ceased in the viewing stands, as people stared in disbelief at what they couldn't comprehend.

Quiet, absolute silence.

"Sorry we're late."

"Father."

Kahn spoke softly, his blood surging, his heart pounding, and his soul trembling.

Even now he is as still as a corpse.

Anglong froze, his prominent nose twitching unnaturally. He seemed to be trying hard to understand the situation, but the buzzing of the nails disrupted his thoughts.

However, that inexplicable throbbing, that bond from his genes and soul, that immense sorrow and anger from the person opposite him, pulled Angron back from the last shred of reason.

The Primarch spoke, his voice like a fierce, howling wind sweeping across the mountains.

"I'm giving you a chance. What are you?"

Kahn felt himself boiling, suffocating, and convulsing.

Finally, he slowly opened his mouth and uttered the words that every war dog had ever dreamed of:

"We are your war dogs who bring you glory."

Without honor, he bowed his head heavily, like a sinner.

Bitterness bloomed in his mouth.

He was the lucky one among those war dogs, but—

There is no glory.

Angron forced a smile that was more like a grimace; his face, studded with the Butcher's Nails, revealed the shattered form of a demigod.

"Then help me kill them."

His response was the roar of Kahn's chainsaw axe.

High up in the stands, a pig, knowing something was wrong but still unable to accept reality, was speaking.

"What...what's going on, sir?"

Their response was the sound of heads hitting the ground.

The massacre has begun.

No one knows how long the massacre lasted; the enraged butcher forgot about something as insignificant as time.

Thousands of airdrop pods roared as they tore through the blood-red sky, light spears and macro cannons ignited the heavens, the air trembled and bled.

The battle axe spun, blood splattered, and angry roars and howls filled the air, crimson enveloping everything.

Angron, like a god of war, charged through thousands of enemy troops. His powerful muscles sculpted the body of a raging god, while his rough leather clothes revealed his status as a slave. With his massive battle axe, he cleaved and swung, his life force flowing freely.

Countless war dogs charged wildly, bursting from the drop pods, weapons in hand, slaughtering their way toward their father.

Fearless, towering figures weave through the raging torrent of war dogs; molten metal and heavy explosive shells are rare long-range weapons in this massacre.

The towering city walls were ablaze, magnificent banners were torn to shreds, heads were ruthlessly chopped off, and mad war dogs howled as they charged toward their enemies.

Discipline is clearly no longer necessary at this point.

With such a vast difference in strength, they were like a raging storm, a tsunami, easily crushing everything in their path! They effortlessly devoured everything that existed before them!

Cities fell one after another, and heads were chopped off one after another!

The iron cages holding the slaves were torn open, and they were swept into this frenzy of slaughter.

Blood and slaughter pursued them.

The ground was covered with blood.

The flames gradually died down, smoke drifted across the sky, the tattered flags hung their heads, and the unseeing corpses were stuck in the flagpoles.

The last large group of survivors fled to caves in the countryside. They included both men and women, but most of them were elderly or infirm.

They were all poor people, or farmers from outside the city.

They have survived to this day thanks to their familiarity with the wilderness.

The roar of the axe was already upon them, and Kahn, charging at the forefront, skillfully raised his weapon—

"enough."

The battle axe, held high above his head, came to a halt.

"That's enough, I said, that's enough."

The Primarch's hoarse, deep voice echoed through the cave, sounding like heavenly music to the common people.

Even though the nails are still clicking.

Kahn didn't understand, but he stopped what he was doing.

The ragged mortals in front of him were trembling.

Kahn turned around, as if waking from a dream.

Anglong's tall figure was blurred in the bright light at the cave entrance, leaving only a silhouette.

"Yes, father."

He responded in a low voice.

So he turned and followed his Primarch away, each step leaving a bloody pit in the soft soil.

They left the cramped, dark cave. In the blood-red sky, black smoke drifted, and as far as the eye could see, blood and heads littered the ground. Meanwhile, the furious war dogs were still rummaging through the ruins of the city for the last survivors.

Angron stood atop the high slope, gazing at all of this, all of this that had appeared countless times in his dreams.

Slave owners were beheaded, tyrants were overthrown, and the foolish lackeys of monarchs paid their price.

But

His eyes were dark, reflecting the terrified slaves hiding and the panicked poor fleeing.

His father, Onomamus's words echoed in his mind, which was regaining its rationality.

“Those people are not monsters. Don’t take your anger out on them. There are many other people who are truly monsters, and they are the ones you should be angry at.”

Some lives should not have to pay the price for this.

His anger was reserved only for monsters.

Angron raised his hands to shoulder height, then released them.

"boom!"

His battle axe struck the hard rock, leaving a permanent mark.

He opened his arms, and the enemy's blood flowed down his arms.

He looked at these warriors who claimed to be his sons, and he looked at these warriors who had pledged their allegiance to him without hesitation.

"enough!"

Angron shouted,

"enough!!!"

Those people stopped, as if waking from a dream, and looked at everything.

The raging torrents suddenly stopped, and they slowly converged from all directions.

Countless people in white armor emerged from the red and black ruins, their armor stained with craters, dust, and blood. They silently walked toward their father.

The battles in various places have long ended. Most of the warhounds had been constantly moving closer to their original hosts during the previous wars. Now, apart from the slow-moving Dreadnoughts, most of the warhounds are here.

Following the current, the last to arrive was a special team.

That was a team led by Legion Commander Rock, consisting of technical sergeants and apothecaries.

In the War Dogs, those brothers who are unwilling to slaughter will choose to become apothecaries or technical sergeants.

At the very center of the group were the brothers and sisters from the Angron Arena.

Realizing that the arrival of the warhounds was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Angron's brothers and sisters decisively demanded that Angron lead the warhounds into battle.

"Don't worry about us, Angron, kill those slave owners."

“Angron, we know you are different from us, but they are very similar to you.”

"Angron, go and kill them! We can't catch you, but we will."

“Kill them before the slave owners can react, Angron. Don’t let them get away.”

At that time, Angron made a second request to the warhounds.

"Help me. Please let them participate in this battle as well."

He wanted to protect them, but he also wanted to fight alongside them.

But the gap in their strength separated them.

Angron, carrying the hopes of his brothers and sisters, departed for another, even more brutal battlefield.

He hoped they were all alive, but he also didn't want them to be protected cowards.

The nail broke his hesitation, and amidst the anticipation of his brothers and sisters, he turned to seek bloodshed.

But they're all standing here now.

His brothers and sisters were all there; some were terrified, while others were extremely excited.

What is happening now is something they could never have imagined, not even in their wildest dreams.

Angron looked at them; they were all there, and there were even some other unfamiliar faces, probably his brothers' and sisters' family members, or others.

Then he looked at the warriors protecting them, strange devices mounted on their armor.

He silently remembered them.

Angron shifted his gaze, sweeping it over the war dogs that had descended from the sky.

They had no gleaming armor; thick layers of blood clung to their bodies.

In the previous battles, from the fragments of conversations among the war dogs, Angron pieced together the stories of these warriors and his origins.

Were they slave owners?

But slave owners would not fight alongside their slaves.

Were they slaves?

But slaves wouldn't have such exquisite equipment.

No, neither.

They are weapons.

A mad and bloodthirsty war machine capable of devouring an entire world.

But now, the power of the weapon has been handed over to him, and the hunting dog has willingly offered up its collar.

Angron looked around at everything, as if he were still in a dream.

The first son to kneel awakened him.