Chapter 97: Angron Fury

Angron stood upon the jagged cliffside overlooking the jagged cityscape of Sakaar, his crimson armor gleaming under the strange twin suns of this brutal alien world. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, and the cries of pain and cheering crowds echoed faintly from the distant coliseums. Around him, five thousand of his World Eaters stood silent and ready, their eyes tracking every movement on the horizon.

The scouting parties had returned, and with them, reports of unimaginable cruelty.

Angron clenched his fists.

He had never been a slave. He had never known chains nor the yoke of oppression. His mind was untouched by the Butcher's Nails, and his soul unbroken by forced subjugation. But what he saw now, through the dataslates brought by his scouts, images of tortured beings dragged into pits, of children trained to kill, of alien species paraded before howling mobs to fight to the death, struck something ancient and primal in his heart.

It was not pity. It was fury.

He turned to his captains, their helms off in his presence.

"The Grandmaster," Angron spat the name as if it were poison. "A tyrant. A creature who sits atop a throne of forced entertainment and broken bones. He has turned this world into a circus of misery."

"Confirmed," growled Centurion Raxor. "He rules the central city from the Grand Spire. Tens of thousands attend his blood games. He controls food and water. And he enslaves every capable warrior he can lay hands on."

Angron took a deep breath. "Then we shall liberate them."

A hushed silence followed his words, as if the air itself had stopped to listen.

One of his younger captains stepped forward. "My lord… they are not human. They are xenos. Should we risk ourselves for them?"

Angron turned, slowly, his red eyes burning with restrained rage.

(Ps. Angron has the potential to be the most empathetic primarch than the others, because he can sense emotion and pain mor clearly with his psychic power, in warhammer because of the butchers nail, it made him feel pain unless his angry, and When the Emperor found Angron, he teleported him away and let all his friends die instead of helping him. This broke Angron’s heart and made him hate the Emperor forever.)

"The Emperor did not forge us to be monsters. They may not be of Terra, but they are sentient, suffering people. The Grandmaster takes their lives as if they were nothing. I say we show him what happens when nothing becomes fury."

There was a growl of approval from the gathered Astartes, low and heavy, like a storm about to break. Their gauntlets tightened on bolters and chainaxes. Fury crackled in the air.

Raxor nodded. "The Grandmaster’s city is heavily defended. Automated defenses. Teleport inhibitors. Energy shielding. Nothing we cannot destroy, but the assault will not be clean."

"Then we bleed for justice," Angron said.

He turned back toward the city in the distance, raising his gauntlet to point at the heart of the tyranny.

“I want to bring this world to the imperium control, I will bring salvation to this world”

“What of the prisoners?” asked Raxor.

“They are not prisoners,” Angron growled. “They are slaves waiting to be unchained.”


---

Within the hour, the skies of Sakaar wept fire.

World Eaters attack the cities with heavy artillery.
Angron led the charge personally, his voice a thunderous roar across the vox channels as his axe, Godsplitter, tore through the air with each stride.

The shield generators guarding the city’s edge were targeted first. Massive turrets rumbled to life, unleashing barrages of plasma and railfire, but the World Eaters were already among them, too close for heavy weaponry. They moved with relentless precision, blowing apart shielding nodes with melta charges, hacking through mechanized guards, and silencing defense turrets with krak grenades and fury.

Explosions tore through the ground.

Energy fields flickered and collapsed.

And above it all, the Grandmaster watched.

High atop the Grand Spire, surrounded by concubines and sycophants, the Grandmaster narrowed his eyes at the view before him. The coliseum trembled beneath the citywide alarm. His slaves whimpered in their cells, and his guards scrambled into defensive positions. He turned to his court advisor, a thin blue-skinned alien in golden robes.

“Who are they?”

The advisor trembled. “We do not know. They appeared from nowhere. Maybe their army was teleported by a wormhole. Maybe the Ravagers, perhaps? But this are too militarized and too strong than those thieves.”

The Grandmaster sipped from his goblet and smiled faintly.

“Interesting.”


---

On the battlefield, Angron’s boots crushed the skull of a synthetic guard.

He marched through the wreckage of the city’s outer sector, the last shield node burning behind him. Ahead, the Grand Spire loomed, tall, gold-plated, an obscene monument to decadence and bloodsport. The cries of prisoners rang out from cages and cells suspended in the air, bound by grav-beams. Some prisoners gasped in awe. Others began to chant, low, uncertain voices calling out for salvation.

Raxor stepped beside Angron. “Transmission intercepted. The Grandmaster’s court is watching. I think his amused, his just watching, not delivering any orders or message, just watching his men getting killed.”

Angron’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s see how long his amusement lasts.”

He raised his axe and bellowed across all vox frequencies, open and defiant.

“To the prisoners of Sakaar, I am Angron of Terra. I come not to enslave, but to free. You have been wronged. Abused. Cast into the pit like beasts. No more. Rise if you can. Flee if you must. But know this, we will break your chains.”

The reply was thunderous.

Not from the vox.

But from the prisoners themselves.

All across the coliseum, cells burst open. Guards were overwhelmed. Aliens of every species, Kronans, Sakaarans, insectoids, even humanoid races unknown to the Imperium, flooded the corridors. Some picked up discarded weapons. Others simply ran. But the city, once orderly in its tyranny, became a furnace of rebellion.

And at its center was Angron.


---

As the Grandmaster watched the rebellion unfold, the amusement finally left his eyes.

He turned to his advisor. “Prepare my personal guard. I'll deal with the leader myself.”


---

End of Chapter 97