War, war.

Fanatical war.

The Great War.

In the galaxy, there is only war.

War is the father of all things, war is the suffering of all beings, war is the end of everything, the scythe of purgatory, it equally devours all the fools who dare to release it, wantonly ravages every unfortunate pawn involved in the whirlpool, swallows all morality and ugliness into the belly, leaving only iron and blood everywhere.

It will beat anyone, it will kill anyone, it will not spare anyone.

Even the god of war is no exception.

Even the god of war is not immune.

……

When the god of blood entrenched on the brass throne held all of Nukaria in the palm of his hand early, it might never have imagined what kind of will it would use to answer the god of blood to the opponents it was waiting for, the tiny races that had long overdue.

But it will soon know.

The rallying horn rang out from the deepest part of the ship, shattering the dreams of the Red Sand Wasteland, and the light spears, the cannon and the warrior's wrath ignited the colossal firmament, illuminating the path of thousands of drop pods and sounding the death knell for tyrannical madness.

When the engines of war began to turn, when the wrath of the original body fell from the sky, even the beating drums of war in the brass fortress seemed so fragmented and embarrassing.

This is the human response to the blood god, to the trap set by its own hands, to the infinite delusions, hypocrisy, cunning and greed in its heart:

Knives out of the sheath.

The warrior wields a sword.

This sword will turn the whole of Nukeriyah into a boundless purgatory.

This knife will make the burning brass throne fall into dead silence.

It is also this knife that will use the blood god's own way to pay tribute to the blood god.

Let the fighters take up arms.

Let the original human body return.

Let the blade of wrath be draped in the face of the Warlord.

Let the scarred roar echo forever in the highest heavens.

This is ...... The day of God's wrath.

——————

The war began.

——————

Wrath......

Suffering......

Crazy......

Slaughter!

Anglon fell to his knees, gasping heavily, his stomach cramping, his mouth spitting blood, and his already chaotic brain had turned into a boiling lake of blood due to the weightlessness and concurrency caused by the rapid landing of the airdrop boat at any cost.

At the very center of the Blood Lake, the Butcher's Nail has never been more powerful.

It smelled the iron of war in its blood, it heard the sound of a thousand rivers of blood, it knew what a grand slaughter was going to befall the world: who would weep in this slaughter? It doesn't care.

Like its mad creator, the Butcher's Nail inflicts only pain, thirsts for blood, and never cares where the rushing river of blood comes from.

As long as blood can flow, even if the world perishes.

The Butcher's Nail thought so, and so did Angelon at the moment when it just landed.

Anger drove the Son of the Mountain, like a rancher's whip on a ploughing ox that would not walk, a pain that could not be described in words, enough to swallow the world, enough to vaporize the ocean, to fill every inch of Angron's veins with rage, and to make his mangled flesh burn in the flames.

Anglon's face began to spasm and twitch uncontrollably, his limbs trembled and he seemed disorganized even when he stood up, his senses distorted and powerful, blind from the excruciating pain, and the smell of blood that was not there: but at last he heard the most distant voice.

It seemed like a gunshot, or a few wails, or something else unrelated: but it didn't matter, like a midnight bell, a call from beyond the horizon that had succeeded in awakening the fury in the Genogen's heart.

Angelon began to run.

He roared, tearing apart the pieces of the drop boat around him, his spasmodic toes making him stumble to his feet, but the bloodthirsty fury overcame it all: when he looked up, Angron sniffed the air like a foraging hound, then looked ahead at the windswept sand, and began his wild run without hesitation.

Running, dashing, roaring, and even using all fours, the Blood God calling to the slaves of the Butcher's Nail in the drums of war, the roar of the Son of the Mountain was even greater than the pain in his mind, and he rushed into the battlefield in a rage, leaving only a trail of blood-colored sand in his wake.

He searched for an opponent, but it was so empty all the way, the cowardly high-ranking riders had long since fled, and the landing place chosen by the Lord of Avalon was so tricky that it was far from the real battlefield.

Soon, Angelon barked in displeasure, for he found that he was so far away from the heart of the killing, that the drop boat had indeed led him to the edge of the snow-capped mountains that had once besieged the rebels, but by this time, the armies of the high-ranking riders were no longer here: the massive warships cast a shadow large enough to obscure the mountains, causing the timid maggots to cringe and hurriedly retreat behind their walls.

They were driving their respective anti-gravity armor and ships, and they were running so fast. Some made a beeline for the inner part of the castle built around the dueling arena, while others hid in their private bunkers, but their belated fear was not to be forgiven: just as every high-ranking rider instinctively searched for a place to hide, a thunderstorm overshadowed everyone's heads equally.

The Primordial Body and the Legion, the Empire's blade pierced into the land of Nukeria, causing countless exclamations of magnates and silence the distant blood-colored sky: the rolling thunder of the Blood God paused because of these warriors, and it seemed to be confused by the actions of the Human Empire.

Soon, however, any mighty psionic could feel a joy from the depths of the High Heavens: the Lord of the Brass Throne, though he didn't understand why this tiny race had stepped into its trap so frantically, knew something else.

War.

A war, coming.

So, when the iron boots of the first Astarte warrior stepped on the red sands of Nukeria, if the warrior carefully pricked up his ears, he could hear the drums of war beating from the depths of the subspace.

The Blood God sings the praises of war, and no matter when and where, who initiates the war, it will be praised by it without discrimination, and it is satisfied to witness the armies of the Human Empire orderly unfolding their formations, concentrating their maximum firepower on a limited battlefield, rather than scattering to slaughter.

The Blood God realized that it would not be a great war and regretted it, but it also realized that it might be a great contest: and so, the long-lost excitement took over the Blood God's face.

The Dawnbreaker and the Midnight Lords, who landed first, were in no hurry to advance their respective lines, and they used their companies as the tip of the pen to demarcate the battlefield frontiers, and delineated the targets to be attacked by the following allies: so when the army of the War Dog Legion arrived in a few minutes, they knew with a glance where to turn their chainsaw axes.

Of course, the moment they stepped on the red sandy land, the Twelfth Legion began to charge, the whole army charged, and every soldier rushed almost recklessly towards the wall in front of them at the call of their company commander, it was an unstoppable wild force: it took them only a few minutes to cross the open area at the very edge of the battlefield, grabbing and tearing the high-ranking riders who had not yet had time to escape behind the wall, when the first war dog roared and climbed up the wall, The last airdrop position hasn't even stopped on the surface yet.

The war dogs threw themselves into the slaughter with the most modest of fury, not knowing what the enemy in front of them had done or the strategic significance of the city, but before they landed on the surface, the Dawnbreaker's genetic protoplasm had sent the necessary information into the minds of every Son of Angelon.

They are told that their father was once haunted by the madness, corruption, and gore of this world; They were confided, and the city in front of them was a steel cage that their genetic father had to face for a long time; They were implied that when they tore these screaming maggots and burned the whole city to the ground, in the ashes, in the ruins, they would see the mountain-tall figure of their genetic father: he had always been here.

Come to the ground, and he'll fight alongside them.

That's enough.

The noble wrath and iron discipline of the war dogs combined to forge a hammer that smashed the vain wall in front of them: when the commander of the Eighth Company, named Karn, and his men took possession of the main gates, nothing could stop the Twelfth Legion from completing the only task now on their minds.

This flashy city will be completely burned.

Behind them, the other two legions involved in the war were unusually silent: neither the Midnight Lord nor the Daybreaker were involved in the frontline slaughter, they wandered the edge of the battlefield, carefully making sure that this bloody war would not turn into a carnage that would get out of control, and at the same time scavenging the fallen High Riders and their guards for the creatures that would make the Foundry world blush.

The most elite squads either took advantage of the chaos to rush to the center of the city, scavenging priceless scientific and technological blueprints, or covered a strange-looking silver figure, escorting those huge black stone pillars, one by one stuck at the very edge of the battlefield.

All of them were doing their jobs, quiet and efficient, except for the dogs of war, who slaughtered every high-ranking rider they could find, searching the ruins for their genetic father: as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but countless scum who needed to be decapitated, but there was no figure of their heart's desire.

Where is he!

Every war dog is roaring.

They don't know, and every wardog doesn't: their genetic father is not in this burning city, but in the other direction of the battlefield, and he is charging at the exact opposite angle towards the city, driven to the point of almost madness because of the smell of blood on the edge of the battlefield.

Behind him, there was only the slowly rolling red sand, and the triumphant laughter of the god of blood on the brass throne: the god of blood watched the pleasing battle as he watched the protogeniture rush to the battlefield as it wished, like a hound in his captivity.

However, the blood god's laughter did not echo for long, and before it could even spread to every corner of Nukeria, it was stopped by the sound of the real universe: none other than the Blackstone devices that had been hastily standing on the red sand, guarded by the most elite Dawnbreakers.

When the number of them reached a level, I saw that the figure in the silver robe quietly pressed the switch, and the invisible secondary wave set off a monstrous wave in the sea of souls, which was invisible to the world, and even dimmed the subspace aura around Nukeriya by a level, and it became more and more declining.

At that moment, even the war dogs in the middle of the bloody battle invariably regained their iron discipline: the scattered slaughter and search gradually stopped, and some began to carefully pursue the survivors, while others concentrated on finding their genetic fathers, and even turned a blind eye to the civilians who fled in the fire.

……

After a long absence, the blood god frowned.

As it saw, with the invisible waves sweeping over Nukeria, Angelon's footsteps were sluggish: the Butcher's Nail was still buzzing, but the genoplasm's sanity was not exhausted after all, and he fell to the ground in embarrassment, raising his head, his eyes still red, but there was still a trace of human reason in its deepest part.

That reason told Angron that he had more important things to do than war and killing, and to tear at the bodies of those high-ranking riders like wild beasts.

Yes, of course he should die to follow in the footsteps of his fighting brothers, but there is a more important thing in his life.

He vividly remembered the dark blue armor he had seen on the Imperial warships, the dark blue armor that had taken away his four most important battle brothers: those men were not lackeys from the high-ranking riders, they were the warriors of the Human Empire in front of him.

That is to say, the fighting brothers whom they had taken captive, his Jochuka, and his brothers and sisters: it was still possible to live, and it was possible to be somewhere in the world, waiting for him to find them, and he could not abandon these most important people until he died.

“……”

Yes, they cannot be abandoned......

Reason is calling, and thinking is pulsating. The brotherhood that has always supported the original gene is like a rushing river, fighting the madness of the butcher's nail with infinite strength.

And on the throne of brass, the Lord of Blood watched all this with exasperation, his violent temper ignited a little rage, and in an instant countless demons were born out of thin air, and they were crushed in extreme pain, but when the endless fire in this subspace spread to the firmament of Nukeria, it was forcibly blocked by the invisible shield.

The Lord of Solonamus was still in action, it was given the highest authority, and countless small blackstone devices were set up, ranging from a dozen to dozens to three digits, and when they formed a circle, they could withstand even the unserious wrath of the gods: still crumbling, but as unshakable as a mountain.

But this was not the end, for this brief setback could not repel the god of war: on the contrary, after realizing that things had gone a little more than he had expected, the real fury raged like a roaring hurricane on the burning brass throne.

The Blood God clenched its fists.

At this moment.

It was finally: in a state of rage.

The gods began to get angry.

——————

[But, to no avail.] 】

Morgan smiled and waved his hand, closing the invisible rift in the shield of the Blackstone Device: it was nothing more than a flash of anger from the Blood God, and the whole world was engulfed by the storm.

But it didn't exceed her expectations.

Or, from the beginning, the blood god's wrath was within Morgan's plan, and she knew that the war for Angelon would only come to an impasse if the god's wrath was truly revealed from the subspace.

And now, it's just getting started.

The Lord of Avalon looked up.

Let's get started. 】

She whispered, and dispatched the slender ghost: Conrad's stern countenance, along with his long black hair, had disappeared into the sands of Nucaelia, and vanished in the direction where Angelon was, followed closely by several of his sons, led by Sevita.

Witnessing them go away, the original body slowly clenched her palm: Morgan felt the sweat left on her palm: it was her inevitable nervousness.

After a long absence, the Lord of Avalon has finally stepped into the battlefield again.

This time, she's going to fight it.

It's a furious god itself.

(End of chapter)