Chapter 507: One Vengeful Spirit Will Do

While the untrustworthy Erebus was setting his scheme in motion—preparing to stab both Lorgar and the Emperor in the back—the Emperor himself visited a newly contacted human world on campaign.

As he drew closer, his psychic senses picked up the unmistakable signature of a Primarch-derived gene-thing on the planet. A quick probe with his psychic power pinpointed the target. But the Emperor's brow tightened—something about the subject's condition was wrong.

Acting on that unease, he teleported himself and a small detachment of Custodians across the void by means of psychic transfer…

---

Nuceria

Nuceria was a reasonably advanced world—above average among human worlds. By rights its people should enjoy a decent standard of living. Yet its ruling elite were cruel and perverse: their favorite entertainment was gladiatorial bloodsport. The suffering and struggle of combatants and monsters was their theatre.

Angron Tark: that name was given to him by the nobles after the boy had been forced into killing at an early age. "Angron" meant "child of the mountain," and "Tark" marked him as property of the Tark house. He did not know his origin. From the moment he crawled free of the metal shell that held him and gained true consciousness, his first memory was fighting strange long-eared aliens amid the snow—nimble and vicious foes that nearly killed him.

Fate continued its cruelty. Near death and grievously wounded, he was found and dumped into the arena as a gladiator. Thus began a life of misery.

When Angron thinks of those days his eyes burn—not from sentiment, but from pain. After winning one bloody duel after another he earned the title the Unvanquished. During that time an old gladiator named Onomus cared for him; Onomus taught him many things and became, in all but blood, his foster father. For Angron those moments were like a campfire in a long frozen night—his first taste of warmth.

Then, after another victory, the nobles decided—as a cruel joke—that Angron should fight Onomus to the death. Angron refused in rage.

To punish him, the rulers subjected him to a brutal neural operation known as the Butcher's Nails. The operation cut away large portions of the brain and implanted cable-like, nail-shaped neural filaments into the brain, spine, and central nervous system. These malformed instruments replaced parts of the victim's mind and sent agonising electrical and thermal jabs through the nerves, driving the bearer into an endless state of rage and madness. Any attempt to feel other emotions only intensified the torment.

The pain was as if countless infernal barbs, broiling and electrified, gouged through every nerve—an exquisite, inescapable agony. Even without stimulation, as the implants sank deeper over time the pain amplified until it slowly killed the host.

After the Butcher's Nails were forced into him, a delirious Angron was thrown into Onomus's room. When he finally came to, he found himself drenched in blood and Onomus torn to pieces. The vision never left him; every recollection re-triggered the Nails' torment, re-opening physical and mental wounds.

By now Angron had escaped the arena and become a leader of an uprising. At its height the rebel force numbered only a few thousand; now it was a handful of desperate survivors, hemmed in and near annihilation. Still, Angron felt no regret. He looked forward to dying in battle with honour—especially if he could take down more of the Tark nobles.

He watched his wounded, starving men and, fighting the Nails' spasms, dug a chunk of flesh from his own arm with a small knife. He pounded the meat into a paste and fed it to his comrades. To the reluctant he barked:

"Eat! Only then will you have the strength to die honorably on the field! Don't be pathetic corpses who die limp and worthless!"

After they'd regained a little strength, Angron nodded in grim satisfaction. Then, tuned by instinct and countless near-death experiences, he sensed a change in the air.

Without hesitation he lunged at a nearby position, blade raised—

—only to have a golden-armoured hand clamp around his wrist. The grip gripped like heavy machinery; his blade could not advance another inch. The stranger's strength outmatched his by far.

A calm voice came into his ear:

"Twelve—though I don't know what to call you—you should be able to feel the link between us."

The voice was unfamiliar, yet upon hearing it Angron had an odd, immediate urge to obey.

He turned his head and saw the owner of the arm. Dignified, solemn—there was an aura of authority. For a blink he felt, strangely, as if he were looking at a perfected version of himself. The sensation unsettled him.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am your maker," the voice answered. "That is the proof of our bond."

Although Angron had no concrete proof, he instinctively believed the claim.

"And what do you want?"

The Emperor released his hold on Angron's wrist and spoke gravely:

"I need your help. I require you to conquer worlds for me. In return I promise you a Legion shaped after your image—vast power and glory."

Angron stared, then laughed incredulously. After a while he sneered:

"I have no interest. I was born on this planet. I will die here with my comrades."

The Emperor's expression hardened. He sensed Angron's hostility—and that something within Angron made him imperfect, a flawed specimen rather than the ideal. After twenty minutes of fruitless talk the Emperor, displeased, left for his ship.

Angron fought the Nails' pain and whispered to his puzzled companions:

"Prepare yourselves—battle is coming."

He could sense the noble forces approaching—he could not match them. Perhaps because he was so close to death, Angron felt an unusual calm.

---

Aboard the Emperor's Ship

On the bridge the Emperor watched the approaching force on the holoscreen—thousands of armoured troops bearing power weapons, vastly outnumbering Angron's band.

The Emperor could not abide the needless destruction of one of his creations. Gathering his psychic might he teleported Angron and several of his fighters aboard the ship.

Angron, bewildered to find himself in unfamiliar surroundings, did not understand his sudden disappearance until his eyes fell upon the Emperor. Rage exploded inside him.

"You took them—what have you done? They need me! My comrades need me!" he roared, drawing his blade and pointing it at the Emperor. "Return me!"

On the ship's screen Angron saw his rebels—leaderless and confused—being butchered by the advancing forces. His veins bulged.

The Custodians immediately moved to seize the man who dared raise a blade against the Emperor. Enraged, Angron cut and struck; in seconds, several Custodians bled.

A massive psychic force pinned him; he could not move. On the screen the last rebel died, eyes blank with shock. That hollow look seared into Angron's heart—he seemed to hear the dying man ask:

"Why? You could've saved us. Why did you merely watch?"

The Emperor replied, cold and direct:

"I am the Emperor. My purpose is to save human civilisation. A single planet's handful of rebels does not warrant my attention. Learn to make choices."

Humiliation flooded Angron.

"I should have died on Nuceria. You stole my glory. Now I am nothing but a vengeful ghost."

The Emperor bound him with psychic force and tossed him into a recovery cradle.

"And so what?" the Emperor said. "For the plan I have set for you, one vengeful spirit is enough."

..

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