On Corinal, the home world of the Crimson Angels, billions of skulls were piled up like mountains, forming a temple that was beautiful, terrifying, and bizarre all at once. Blood continuously flowed from the gouged-out eyes of these skulls, filling the blood pool in the center of the temple.
Eight groups, each with nine Sons of Sanguinius, knelt in the blood pool, praising the Archangel's name.
And in the circle they formed, the Crimson Angel bathed in blood, which slid from his hair and flowed over his naked body, revealing a demonic beauty.
But when the Sons of Sanguinius around him looked at him, what was awakened in their minds was not a sense of beauty, but a suffocating rage and a thirst for blood.
All beings are born with impulses: the impulse to eat, the impulse to abuse, the impulse to indulge, the impulse to rage, the impulse to seek revenge.
And the Sons of Sanguinius were born with a thirst for blood.
They yearned to chew the neck muscles of the living, to seize their hot blood, to gnaw on the corpses of the dead, and to savor their cold bodily fluids.
They were born to seize blood; the Emperor molded them this way, the Emperor made them this way, the Emperor expected them to be this way.
It was just that over the long ten thousand years, their nature, their impulses, their scarlet hunger had been suppressed.
Suppression does not mean disappearance; a beast confined to a cage will no longer have the opportunity to hunt, but that does not mean it will not miss the moments of tearing at prey's entrails with its fangs.
When impulses are suppressed, nature is twisted, and hunger is shackled, then all of this will accumulate into rage.
This rage has been accumulating for ten thousand years. Ten thousand years ago, Sanguinius shackled them, asking them to suppress this instinct.
But ten thousand years later, Sanguinius returned, and he declared that the long years of suppression were wrong.
Bloodthirst was his and his Sons' true nature.
The so-called purity, perfection, and art were merely a mistake, a subtle error that arose during his drift through the Warp.
+ Embrace your rage +
+ Unleash your rage +
Whispers echoed in the ears of the Sons of Sanguinius, tempting them to shed all pretense and embrace the burning rage deep within their hearts.
The Red Angel let out a low laugh, joyfully watching as more and more Sons of Sanguinius merged with his spirit.
He was rage itself, the Blood Angels' bloodthirsty instinct suppressed by Sanguinius, the culmination of all the Sons of Sanguinius' rage over ten thousand years.
Originally, in the Blood God's plan, the Red Angel would have merged with Sanguinius over ten thousand years, turning Sanguinius into Khorne's daemon Primarch.
But a small Blood Angels Apothecary Meros took Sanguinius' place, throwing himself into the fury of khorne, causing the Blood God's plan to fail.
Although the Red Angel was born by occupying Meros' body, he was never complete, because most of the Blood Angels were still suppressing their rage.
Furthermore, there was another point...
+ No, remember the teachings of Sanguinius! +
+ Do not succumb to rage! +
+ Sons of Sanguinius! Do not disgrace the blood of Sanguinius! +
A series of weak growls emanated from within the Red Angel's body, and those Sons of Sanguinius connected to the Red Angel all wavered slightly.
The Red Angel let out a low growl filled with hunger and rage, suppressing the wavering in their hearts.
That was the soul of Apothecary Meros; even though the Red Angel had occupied this body for ten thousand years and tormented that soul for ten thousand years, he still hadn't been able to completely extinguish it.
"Soon, soon..."
the Red Angel whispered softly.
The Lord of Change had outlined a destiny for him: he would completely replace Sanguinius, devour Sanguinius' essence, and become a brand new Primarch.
And the Lord of Blood had granted him unparalleled power for this destiny, to usurp Sanguinius' throne.
But this was not enough; the Red Angel even tried to conspire with two other Gods.
Nurgle unhesitatingly refused him, and Mortarion, like a pale grim reaper, descended from the sky, expelling him from Nurgle's Garden.
As for Slaanesh, the Lord of Hunger, he hesitated.
On one hand, the Lord of Hunger indeed saw the Red Angel's potential; if the Red Angel truly replaced Sanguinius and became the new Sanguinius, that would indeed be very tempting. This gave the Lord of Hunger an opportunity to share the Primarch Sanguinius.
But the Lord of Hunger was not yet willing to fall out with Alexander, at least not until Alexander ascended to a divine position and completely crushed Ynnead. Slaanesh did not want to fall out with Alexander.
Slaanesh ultimately refused the Red Angel's request; he temporarily still sided with Saint Doraemon.
But fortunately, the Red Angel had other allies.
Electricity, sparks, and splashing thoughts suddenly appeared before the blood pool, and the figure of Vashtorr, the Creator, revealed himself within them.
His steel wings trembled slightly, and his furnace-red eyes stared at the Red Angel in mid-air.
Beside Vashtorr, the Primarch Perturabo and Warmaster Abaddon also appeared.
"I have completed the arrangements, my ally," Vashtorr's voice Damned like sputtering steam, and as he spoke, a series of electrical sparks flickered across Corinal.
Those were Vashtorr's nerve nodes; he could perceive everything on the entire planet through them, connecting with the entire planet.
"My fleet is also in its designated position," Warmaster Abaddon's gloomy gaze swept across the entire blood pool, finally settling on the Red Angel, his expression becoming slightly strange.
Perturabo's expression was somewhat similar to Abaddon's.
The Red Angel had transformed his appearance to be extremely similar to Sanguinius, only with an added demonic bloodthirst, and he was unclothed, exposing his pale, muscular body to the air, allowing blood to flow over him.
Sanguinius' body is indeed perfect. This was the thought that simultaneously crossed Abaddon's and Perturabo's minds.
"The fleet is not important," Perturabo subtly shifted his gaze from the Red Angel, changing the subject.
This was something that the Red Angel, Vashtorr, and Perturabo himself all knew perfectly well.
The true key was the Primarch.
"I have made sufficient preparations, and I do not fear Sanguinius," Perturabo had deployed a large number of Iron Circle robots for a battle with Sanguinius. "But our enemies are not just Sanguinius."
"If Leman Russ and Sanguinius both descend upon this planet, who will deal with him?"
Perturabo's gaze swept over the Red Angel, Vashtorr, and Abaddon.
The Red Angel was born from ten thousand years of Blood Angels' rage, extraordinarily powerful, but wanting to contend with a Primarch... it was still too difficult.
If it were in the Warp, within the Soul Forge, Vashtorr's true form could indeed contend with a Primarch, but currently, only an avatar of Vashtorr, one of his bodies, was in the real universe, and it would be too difficult for him to contend with a Primarch.
As for Abaddon... if drach'nyen was willing to exert its power, he would indeed be somewhat useful, but that daemon sword was currently just a display, utterly useless.
Vashtorr, the Red Angel, and Abaddon did not answer Perturabo's question, instead all turning to look at Perturabo, as if hoping Perturabo would provide the answer himself.
"What good are any of you?!" Perturabo gritted his teeth and said angrily.
Perturabo felt as if his entire life was cursed, though he wasn't sure if it was just his imagination.
For ten thousand years, when he wasn't rebelling, he did the dirtiest, most arduous, and most thankless work.
Even after the Horus Heresy erupted and he rebelled, he was still doing the dirtiest, most arduous, and most thankless work.
Ten thousand years passed, he ascended to daemonhood, and he was still doing the dirtiest, most arduous, and most thankless work.
Whether loyal, rebellious, or daemon-ascended, why did he always have to bear the pressure?
Wouldn't that mean he rebelled for nothing?! Wouldn't that mean he ascended to daemonhood for nothing?!
Although resentful that they had dumped all the work on him, Perturabo had indeed prepared.
Abaddon, Vashtorr, and the Red Angel clearly realized this, as an Iron Circle robot stood beside Perturabo.
The Iron Circle were Perturabo's personal guards, the only non-human guards among all Primarchs' retinues, and also the strongest among all Primarchs' guards. Perturabo had even used these mechanical soldiers he created to suppress a furious Angron.
But this particular Iron Circle robot accompanying Perturabo was clearly different.
Its entire body was made of gleaming living metal, subtly interspersed with some blackstone, and its eyes glowed with an eerie green light.
Vashtorr narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked at this being, vaguely sensing what was inside this Iron Circle.
"I can help you," the Iron Circle actually spoke, twisting its metallic head to look at Perturabo. "But in exchange, you not only need to release me from the cage you created, but also send me to Mars."
"I agree to your terms, fragment of the God of the Material Universe," Perturabo nodded slightly.
"..A C'tan Shard?" Abaddon stared at the Iron Circle robot for a moment. "But what if they have a third Primarch?"
"Roboute Guilliman will not have the opportunity to interfere with this planet," Perturabo said lightly. "There is so much tedious work in the galaxy for him to do; how could he possibly spare the time?"
"Even if Saint Doraemon has a high probability of having awakened, it would at most have been less than a day or two since he woke up. How could he bring back another Primarch in such a short time?"
On Macragge's Honour, Guilliman wearily looked at the documents before him.
After rushing, he finally finished processing these documents and freed up some time.
But this did not mean he had time to rest.
Guilliman looked with some pain at the door before him; he had received a summons from Sanguinius a few hours ago.
Saint Doraemon had returned, and it was time to hold another small meeting among the Primarchs.
Among the Primarchs...
"Leman Russ... *sigh*..."
Guilliman rubbed his brow, comforting himself:
"It's just Leman Russ, there's nothing to worry about."