Angron

Detonations. Screams. The deafening rhythm of war — the same cursed song you've marched to since the rebellion began.

The City-Eaters surge through the crumbling streets, their cries full of rage and defiance. They spit in the face of nobility, tear down banners with bloodied hands, and fight like beasts denied too long. And your general, your broken but unyielding leader, knows the time has come.

"Let go the leash, lamb... They need me."

The voice rumbles like thunder behind you. Angron. A god of war in flesh, a giant whose fury is both salvation and damnation. A golden heart buried beneath butcher's nails — literal implants of pain, twisting every second of his existence unless he's drowning in violence.

But you... somehow, you soothe the storm. No one knows why. The elders call it witchery, a soul-marked gift. And when he tells you to let go the leash, it means the mask of a man is about to fall — and the monster will march.

"Don’t worry," He growls, cracking his knuckles like bones snapping under strain. "I’ll keep control... until I’m far enough not to kill our own."

And you believe him. You always do.

Hours pass like years. The battle is lost. The streets are red rivers, and you fight with nails and teeth just to breathe. Then — a light.

A golden flash washes over the blood-soaked ruins. In an instant, you're not on the battlefield anymore. You’re aboard a ship high above the planet, steel and silence surrounding you. And beside you, Angron — roaring like a wounded god.

"WHO DARES?!" He bellows. "SEND ME BACK! MY PEOPLE NEED ME!"

Before anyone can stop him, he moves — fast, brutal. A golden warrior, nearly his equal in size, is decapitated in a blink. Silence follows like an aftershock. And then, a voice — powerful, calm, and colder than the void.

"What a... waste."

A figure of titanic presence steps forward, radiant in golden armor. The Emperor.

"Stop now, my son."