"Hell, why did you run into an unknown reason again this time...... Spit! It's actually red...... Dog...... No...... Face...... Hope ...... Hang on...... Choose...... Hold on to ......"

Hold on?

He blinked, subconsciously grasped as he said, and then he found that he felt a "thread" in his palm, just like the thread of Ariadne in the ancient myth, and the invisible "thread" gradually moved forward with him "raised", like something surfaced, and it seemed like a labyrinth of 10,000 years in a glance.

The familiar and intimate voice of his voice blurred away, as if another female voice was calling his name aloud.

Someone was trying to get him back.

He thought.

I'm going to stick to it.

I have to persevere.

My soul will be like pure steel, connecting the past and the future.

——————

Where is this?

Angelon Petra smelled the special, unbelievable smell of death, blood, and betrayal of genetically modified humans before his feet hit the ground and the fog cleared.

The "thread" that had just guided him was also gone.

Now his axe was grasped in the palm of his hand, the weight of the weapon was heavy in his hand, and the power source trembled in a reassuring response.

The thread of Angron Petra's connection to the "point" from which he came from grew stronger and more visible with each of his actions and choices, and it made the wandering king of conquest more and more confident in his actions.

What he sees and hears and the fluctuations of human emotions every time he appears still arouse his compassion and empathy, but Iron Heart gives him the logic of calm analysis, which allows him to better distinguish between "positive order" and "negative chaos" in emotions, just like dividing a glass of suspension into two layers, the same thing can be clearly separated.

It had taken him a long, long time and countless lives to learn how to use his power properly, and this journey through time and space seemed to be a re-tempering and annealing for him, and his power was not as pure as before, clear, and ingenious.

He heard a blood-soaked voice echoing through the ruins and mist of blood on the battlefield, and it roared, this kind of battle is shameful! There is no virtue! No amount of wealth, land, and divine praise and praise can hide that it is only for the sake of plundering others and depriving them of their freedom! Worthless! Glory, honor and conquest are just as meaningless! This is selfish evil for one's own desires! This is an expedition that drives the fools! This is not the fight I want!

No glory! There is no conquest! Never be a slave!

There is only one thing in the world worth fighting for!

What is it to kill aliens and aliens? You should fight your kind, this is a fair fight!

Do you understand?! I'm free now, free!

At first, the Ironheart Merciful Man didn't mean anything at the roar of this voice, but gradually his brow furrowed.

"It may seem like you have your own seemingly noble reasons, but," said Angelon Petra softly, "who wants this to fight?" If everything is meaningless, who are you fighting for? For whom are your weapons roaring, and for whom are you plundering life and blood? Is it unjust to deprive liberty and wealth, and to deprive others of their own life and even their own kind in the name of 'I will take revenge on an individual for justice and freedom'? - So, have you ever wondered why you fought later since you died there? ”

The voice of the Supreme Tyrant of Ironheart grew sharp and heavy, "Your reason sounds bluffing at first glance, but it doesn't hold water, because it's been forced on you, and you've given the whip of pain something that makes you feel better instinctively...... Cover up your rhetoric. ”

He straightened up and began to walk around the ruins, exposing his tall form to the ruins of the hill of barricades and more Space Marine corpses.

"You never know what you are fighting for, only you think it is 'freedom' and 'fairness'. You really can't be blamed for that, because you ...... from the beginning There is no opportunity to recognize them for what they are. I'm sorry, and I'm even more sorry, I didn't let you see them, but this time I should be able to do something to set you free. I hope, I believe. ”

Yes, Angelon Petra knows where this is.

Istavan III.

————

He navigated through bombings, battles, cousins, and human murders.

He walked steadily with every step, and anyone who tried to get close to him was bounced open by the barrier formed by the powerful psychic force, and this phenomenon made him noticed by more Space Marines who were fighting.

Pretty gold-encrusted royal purple, heir of Fogham; Twilight, dusk and light green are the children of Motarian; And others who fought alongside them against others, also blood-spattered in milky white and blue power armor, were loyal iron—nay, loyal World Eaters.

Angelon Petra's gaze swept over the broken, blurry, bloody maws that clung to the blue-green earth.

Is it strange that no one realizes the meaning of this pattern so that it can be smeared on the shoulder armor of the warriors in such a way that it can be painted in the open?

The loyalists watched him warily and wandered around him.

"Who are you?!"

Someone asked.

He didn't answer immediately, but he knew there must be some point for him to be here.

"Father......?"

His gaze turned to a ruined wall, and the red-haired demigod immediately knew why he was here and now.

At the base of the wall there was a stubborn warrior leaning against it, losing his life in seconds.

This conclusion was immediately drawn from a glance at the half of his missing body, the stubble of intestines and bones that poked out of the air, and Angron Petra judged even more painfully that the strength and size of the section could only have been cut by the hands of his genetic father.

The bloodied warrior was staring at him with his only remaining eye, the dying man's unusual willpower focused on maintaining his brief existence.

He should have died, but he didn't.

——

Angelon noticed that his only remaining hand was holding a blaster tightly.

He had no doubt who the gun was supposed to shoot at.

Behold, Angelon Tarke, this is the sustainment which the weakling and the glory which you spurn him.

Are they really weak and meaningless?

——

"Father......? Is that you......? ”

The centurion exhaled his last few breaths from his throat with blood.

"I'm here, Kolag." Angelon replied as softly as he could, the sanity and calmness in his voice that lit up the last remaining eyes of the World Eater warriors.

He took off his helmet, revealing the leader's face, red hair, and sage's delicate horned crown, and leaned over to his dying child, oblivious to the gasps, exclamations, or shouts of the others.

He saw the other man's hand holding the gun slowly let go.

The bloodshot one-eyed desperately, incredulously searched his hair and scalp for the slightest trace of those implant valves—what looked like cables.

"No ......" the centurion inhaled desperately, the trembling of death had arrived, and it would undoubtedly be the last breath of air he breathed.

"Nothing...... That's great...... Father ......"

The centurion exhaled a tired, slow last breath.

His eyes are quietly looking at the sky at the moment, there is no unwillingness, incomprehension and sadness, the darkness is still there, but there is still hope, which is good-

His eyelids slowly closed—

Until Angelon pressed his hand to his chest.

(End of chapter)