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

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But this is Karas and Herrera.

"Ah."

Karas laughed again.

"Haven't you thought about what it would be like without your Barbarossa, Mortarian?"

Before that sentence could truly strike at Mortalian, Karas immediately followed up with another, as if afraid the Primarch would react.

Karas reached out his hand to Mortarian.

Give me your hand, and take off your gauntlets.

As Karas spoke, Mortarian instinctively removed his gauntlet and extended it. Karas then deftly bit open his index finger, a psychic glow emanating from it. He pressed Mortarian's hand down and wrote a spell on it with his own blood.

Those are two names.

"Carras Typhon." and "Typhons."

"All right."

Karas said, "Release Mortalian's left hand," and gave a self-deprecating laugh.

"Let's use this name,"

He laughed, his face crinkling with wrinkles.

"After all, he was the one who helped me choose the name."

【……you--】

Motalian was about to say something when Herrera suddenly coughed loudly.

"that's it?"

The woman asked a question, but her next sentence caused the pupils of both people present to widen in shock.

"Then I'll do it too,"

Herrera said, as if recalling some beautiful memories, her smile gentle. Looking at the terrifying woman's lifeless expression, Karas bet 100% that she was thinking of Hades.

"Transfer the contract with Slaanesh to me, Mortarian."

Yay, it's gone!

Chapter 749 Depends on Mental State

In fact, as the Primarch who is most likely to take a break, Angron rarely goes crazy.

But the reality is, Angron is going crazy right now.

Perhaps no one can accept that another version of themselves has become a pervert in some sense, especially one covered in toys—just thinking about this makes Angron scream inside.

In the silent room, people looked at each other in bewilderment. Only Anglon, sitting in a single chair, hung his head listlessly, the shadows falling on his face revealing a rather horribly dejected expression.

This wasn't because Angron's brothers and his elderly father respected him and thus gave him space and time to contemplate life, but rather because of the psionic pressure emanating from Angron—

This heavy power made people clearly perceive that a giant beast was in a bad mood, and its shadow was enveloping their souls, slowly staining them with chaotic gloom.

The Primarchs almost all began to feel inexplicably depressed or confused, and even Dorn pursed his lips tightly.

The Lord of Humanity, however, distanced himself from the situation, turning his head to take a sip of hot tea.

Hades is the only one unaffected, but he doesn't want to speak now because he has emotional intelligence, and judging from Angron's expression, it's not the right time for him to speak.

Finally, with a serious, contemplative expression, Angron slowly spoke.

I never imagined...

His pale lips moved as if trying to say something, but in the end he couldn't say anything. The thought of what he might become made him dizzy.

What saddened and maddened Angron most was what happened after he heard Dorne's words—

He had already subconsciously thought of something.

Before his reason, which had been far behind him, caught up with Angron, certain knowledge and images had already surfaced in Angron's mind: the various sensitive parts of the human body, how to maximize the tactile sensation of each part, and the emotions that he found most interesting.

A fraction of a second later, Angron’s screaming rationality caught up with him, and then the Primarch realized what he had just subconsciously thought.

!!!

Fortunately, Hades was there. Before Angron could choose to roar or jump off the building, he was the first to be taken down by Hades.

Unfortunately, the ruler of mankind is here.

So he was awakened once again from the painful and unsettling darkness.

Angron hated this world that allowed him to understand written language.

He tried his best to stop his racing thoughts, but it was no use when he realized that his other self was Slaanesh's demon prince—Angron wished that self would be wrapped in more cloth.

No, it shouldn't be transparent, nor semi-transparent, nor should it be the kind that doesn't cover the key areas, nor should it be the kind that barely covers the key areas.

Do not be completely naked.

He was practically praying that it wouldn't be one of those with plug-ins all over its body. The reality might be even more terrifying. The Primarch's overdeveloped brain thought of the Butcher's Nail, and then Angron thought of the even more ominous modified creation.

He now only wished to die immediately, or to be even more brutal, to be sent to another destiny line right now, and then, before anyone found out, Angron would use his double axes to chop his other self into mincemeat—and then dump it into the Dark Realm to destroy the evidence.

This is a more insidious form of social death, determined by people's moral bottom line. If one can accept it, then this fact is completely harmless.

The problem is that Angron clearly has a moral compass—and you can tell from the gladiator's gleaming, meticulously polished armor that Angron cares about his personal image.

Take it easy, my...brother.

Finally, in Angron's distraught state, it was Robert Guilliman who spoke first, attempting to comfort the Lord of Red Sand.

Although Guilliman had not yet recovered from the tragic fact that he was the Kingslayer, and the once meticulously styled hair of the Empire Lord had become disheveled and his eyes had become weary, he realized that he was not the most devastated one.

In fact, everything has a traceable pattern.

Guilliman thought he could barely accept himself in that fateful version of himself—or perhaps he was still maintaining the necessary rationality because Dorn had given so little information about him.

Even for himself, Guilliman of this world took the step of removing the imperial crown, the only difference being that it was a bloodless abdication.

...If something were to happen in another world, even if Guilliman himself did not believe he would do such a heretical thing, at least logically and in the mysticism of fate, such a possibility would indeed arise.

Just like Robert Guilliman, who is sitting upright now, wearing an imperial crown.

Guilliman coughed, glancing at the distraught Angron, his mind racing with uncontrollable thoughts.

He stared at Angron, subconsciously imagining what a muscular gladiator would look like after defecting to Slaanesh, before deciding to look away.

If we win, then it's not a real, existing reality.

Guilliman reassured himself, which was also a way of comforting himself.

He couldn't imagine himself beheading the Emperor—Guilliman shuddered; it was an utterly treasonous act, something he might never have considered before.

【and,】

Killieman shrugged casually.

Over there, we're all the same—degeneration is the norm.

Mortalian, who had remained silent all along, suddenly took a deep breath and let out a halting, cold laugh.

[The leader of heretics]

He spoke with a mix of sarcasm and sadness, saying, "I am honored to receive this title."

Hades coughed and, feigning seriousness, covered his lower face with his hand.

"At least... cough cough, not Negro."

But Slaanesh.

Angron finally spoke again, and the Primarch wiped his face with his hand in extreme sorrow, then covered his face with both hands—he was too ashamed to face anyone.

What drove Anglon to despair the most was that he could, in a certain way, "understand" another version of himself.

Aside from Angron, perhaps no one else could truly appreciate the value of emotions. Angron cherished every positive emotion: the fighting spirit and will of a gladiator on the verge of death; the unspoken understanding between close friends that could be grasped with a single glance; the unwavering loyalty of warriors who defended the empire... To Angron, these emotions were like treasures scattered among the grass in the morning, shimmering with a captivating light.

A respectable person's positive emotions naturally shine like diamonds—Anglon admires, respects, and hopes that these emotions can be reproduced.

This is why he is so keen to relieve his brothers' sorrow and frustration. Of course, the main reason is Angron's own helpful nature.

But sometimes, Anglo would pause to admire Conrad Coz’s insane and beautiful state of mind, a madness that was hard for ordinary people to reach, which also explained why Conrad liked to walk on all fours; sometimes, he would look thoughtfully at Saint Gilles, whose deep and restrained emotions, beneath his outward holiness, were as dazzling as the sunset over Baal.

This was another spectacle, which Anglon was reluctant to describe as “beautiful,” but he was powerless to change it, so he would only stop occasionally and try to alleviate their suffering as much as possible.

But what if he chooses to descend into an even more terrifying path...?

Anglong felt sweat on his forehead; he felt quite drenched in sweat.

He couldn't imagine how crazy his other self would become.

As an expert in emotional management, Anglong certainly knows which emotions are the easiest to evoke and which are the most "spectacular" to manifest after being evoked.

He understood why his other self had fallen into the path of Slaanesh.

Breathing, breathing, Angron took deep breaths. He felt a little guilty. Inside the palace, the emotions he had felt when he first awoke seemed to have been transmitted, and some of their Primarch brothers seemed to have sensed something.

Now, in front of his desk piled high with documents, Conrad Coates had already climbed onto the ceiling, squinting thoughtfully at the direction of the secret room, while Saint Gilles put down his pen beside the desk.

In the distance, Corax frowned as he put down the war report submitted by his legion. Raven looked up, seemingly wanting to know what had happened.

What happened?

Nothing much, just that Angron from another world fell into the path of Slaanesh and successfully became a perverted sex nerd covered in holes and carrying all sorts of gadgets.

Angron, who was covering his face, let out another drowning-like cry.

He hoped that in another world, the arena on his home planet would be used for life-or-death matches, not for anything else.

Angron brainstormed again, but before he could let his wild imagination run wild and defeat himself, he finally ended his reverie with his strong willpower.

Finally, Angron looked at Hades with a pale and rather weak expression, and offered the most sincere thanks of his life.

Thank you, thank you, Hades, you killed Slaanesh.

"Well, strictly speaking, it was Mortarian who did it."

Hades paused, pointing at Mortarion. Angron simply turned his head, weary and heartbroken, and said...

Then I thank you too... thank you all...

Before anyone could react, Angron swayed as he stood up.

Sorry, I need to go and have some peace and quiet first.

Angron rubbed his temples and left on his own, the people watching him go—they probably still wanted to discuss something, about another timeline, about those unsettling names.

But as Hades watched Angron's dim figure disappear into the distance, he sensed something was amiss.

Sure enough, less than a minute later, they heard Conrad's cheers, a powerful and piercing sound that echoed deep into the palace corridors.

[Angron jumped off a building! Come quick! Yay!!! -- You won't die like that! Angron! Jump over there! Jump over there!!!]

? ? ! !

..............................

[One month later]

Something must have happened.

Conrad casually remarked, then used the quill in his hand to pierce his throat and scratch his tonsils.

【…】

Kolac, standing beside him, maintained that slightly tense and cautious demeanor, his fists clenching and unclenching.

Even our old man has started working seriously.

Conrad continued, referring to Neos, who, after Angron's failed suicide attempt that day—the Lord of Red Sand fell from the highest balcony of the palace and successfully crushed all the rocks and bricks in his path with his forehead, allowing these poor inorganic things to commit suicide.

Then Neos got to work, without even needing Guilliman's prompting—the next round of genetic modification experiments was about to begin, and the Imperium was about to produce a new batch of stronger! bigger! more WAA—powerful! Space Marines.

[Dorn also...]

"Corax said hoarsely,"

It's not quite the same as I remember.

But for a while now, Guilliman seemed to have deliberately kept Dorn at a distance from all of them. For the past month, Dorn had been on the Mountain Array, with only Guilliman and Hades connecting with him to discuss the future of the Imperial Fist and the Mountain Array's modification project.