Chapter 162 What Kind of Nail Is This?

"This is the first time this bed has been used." Perturabo sat in the iron chair beside the bed, watching the lines on the data screen fluctuate at a stable rate, so he removed a few neural transmission lines and tied a bundle of cables behind his head with a coil. "To treat a seriously injured brother."

The giant who was undoubtedly his brother was still lying in the bed, his tall and strong body showing a contrasting weakness and damage. Even in a coma, he would occasionally murmur a painful roar from his throat.

After washing off the blood stains all over his body, several shocking scars crisscrossed on his rough skin, and the bloody wound in his throat cut by the axe was particularly eye-catching. He was finally saved by the exhaustion before being knocked unconscious by the concussion grenade.

With the extraordinary self-healing power of the Primarch and the precious medicine spray temporarily prepared by the pharmacist, these wounds gradually recovered at a speed observable to the naked eye. This is almost everything that the Astartes pharmacist can do for the Primarch, who is almost another creature in terms of physiological conditions.

Perturabo rubbed his brows with two fingers, making his frowning expression less stiff.

Dorn closed the door of the ward, and strode to the bedside with his news and the golden armor that he had not yet taken off. When he observed this brother, he still maintained a rock-like cold expression, but his hand did accidentally break off the steel guardrail of the bed.

He silently put down the broken guardrail: "This city, which the locals call Desia, has been fully taken over by us. The gladiators in the arena will temporarily requisition the emptied palace for resettlement."

Rogal Dorn's takeover often means the collective imprisonment of the ruling class, the key detention of leaders, and the comprehensive martial law of civilians. Perturabo is used to this simplification.

"It took one Terra hour." Perturabo said, "and another thirty-seven minutes. What about the old gladiator who appeared in the arena with this brother?"

"Still not out of rescue." Dorn replied. "He is too injured, and many of his old wounds are not healing."

"I think we have to save him." Perturabo whispered. "I can feel the importance of this old man to our brothers."

He and Rogal Dorn both understand the deep relationship that a mortal can build with a Primarch. Except for Horus Lupercal and the second Primarch they don't know, every known brother has established a very deep emotional connection with their respective home planets, and the bond between people is the concentration of this emotional connection.

Even Leman Russ has two giant wolves who are so close that they want to hang out with each other every day.

"I learned the local language, and a female gladiator named Krest told me that our brother is called Angron, the most famous warrior in the Desia Arena."

"Do they trust you?" Perturabo didn't turn his head, his eyes were still fixed on the data board monitoring Angron's vital signs.

"No." Dorn said, spitting out this word with a heavier tone than usual.

The more defenses they had, the more the thousand hardships Angron and his companions had gone through were highlighted.

Perturabo took a breath, and the blood mist on the sand almost merged with his brother named Angron. Even in the Iron Blood, the blood in the red sand still had no way to dissipate. As he stared at the data screen, the scarred body of Angron in his peripheral vision made his heart tremble in his chest.

"This kind of thing always happens," Perturabo said, noticing the unnatural tremor at the end of his voice. "The galaxy is so vast that there will be a group of people who live in hell. And our brother is one of those people."

"We will change all this," Dorn said in a deep voice, and the certainty in his words proved that this was not even a promise or an oath to him, but just a common sense that did not need to be thought about. "When will Angron wake up? This is his home planet, and he has the right to decide the future of his own planet."

"I don't know."

Perturabo finally moved his eyes away from the data screen, and his eyes immediately fell on Angron, or rather, his attention had long been taken away by the pain of his brother's coma.

If he were to deal with this planet, he would launch a thorough cleansing. Perturabo thought, and decided to stand up and walk away the accumulated emotions.

"When he wants to wake up. I've been sitting for a long time, so I'll get up and walk. Do you need to sit down?"

Rogal Dorn nodded, exchanged positions with Perturabo, and sat down in the iron chair with his golden armor.

"He will wake up," said Dorn, whose anger was not always easy to detect on the surface. "The bound slave owners in the entire arena are waiting for his decision."

"And his companions. I watched the battle scene recorded in the electronic component today. Our brothers value their companions, even though only two people are still alive today—including himself and the old gladiator on the verge of life and death."

Perturabo wandered silently beside the bed, smoothing the wrinkles on his linen robe, and then he found that the blood on his brother's body had stained himself because of the contact during the care process.

He should have changed into a clean robe, but he didn't want to miss his brother's awakening accidentally because of his absence for a few minutes.

Perturabo put his hand on the guardrail on the other side, controlling the strength so as not to break the guardrail on this side. He began to prepare his opening remarks, which made him realize that he was rarely nervous.

Angron was different from every brother he had ever met, from Horus Lupercal to Rogal Dorn, except for Magnus who was too naive at the time, they all embraced each other in a mature and complete manner.

Only Angron. When he saw the giant commit suicide, it was hard to judge whether Angron was mature, but his brokenness was obvious.

Perturabo remembered that when he first met Rogal Dorn, he had secretly vowed to prove that only Rogal Dorn would make a mistake in the reference of a long list of titles.

If it was not Angron he met today, he would definitely report the more than ten catchy nicknames he had made up in his mind one by one.

But he could never say to Angron, "I am the Lord of the Kings of Olympia, the Conqueror of the Eagle, the Ruler of Hundreds of Stars".

He was not selfish enough to tear open the scars on his brother's heart again the first moment he woke up. Even if he added hypocritical embellishments such as "caring for the people", it would never work.

Soon after, a message came from the pharmacist Titus. Although Onomamos was still in danger, he was out of danger and his vital signs were stable. The two Primarchs breathed a sigh of relief when they met face to face.

After that, there was another period of time, and the amplitude of a sine line on the data screen suddenly increased. Perturabo was shocked and nodded to Dorn, indicating that Angron was about to wake up.

The greeting slipped to his lips, I am Perturabo, your brother. We finally found you. He thought. This should be enough.

Angron's eyelids trembled constantly, and suddenly, his eyes with unexpected calmness opened, and he scanned the surrounding environment with almost bored alertness.

"Hello, I..."

Perturabo had just opened his mouth when he heard Angron shouting angrily and pounced on Rogal Dorn, punching the defenseless Dorn into the wall with a punch, including his golden armor.

The gladiator's wound burst again, and blood flowed out. He turned and stared at Perturabo's face, the deep sadness in his bronze eyes piercing the latter's heart.

"Did he drive the nail into you!" The warrior growled, "Don't be afraid, tell me, was it him!"