Blood spattered across Angron's visor, the crimson a dull smear against the backdrop of flickering flames. The stench of burning flesh and promethium filled his helm, a metallic tang that did little to mask the raw, feral hunger gnawing at him. Below, the last bastion of the Istvanian landing zone – a heavily fortified bunker complex – pulsed with defiance.

He raised his massive chainaxe, the Slayer's Fury, hefting its weight with practiced ease. The weapon whined with a malevolent energy, a dark echo of the rage that burned within him. Today, he would break this damnable shell, would carve a path through the Loyalist scum who dared to resist. Yet, amidst the familiar thrum of battle-lust, a discordant note flickered in the corner of his mind.

Angron stalked away from the precipice overlooking the bunker, his crimson ceramite armor scraping against the ruined cityscape. He found himself in a narrow alley, hemmed in by shattered buildings. Here, the sounds of the battle were muted, a dull roar in the distance.

He lowered the Slayer's Fury, the point clattering against the rubble. What was it? This strange disquiet. It wasn't fear. Never fear. It was...doubt. A snarl ripped from Angron's throat. He couldn't allow this. Doubt was weakness. Doubt was vulnerability. He raised the Slayer's Fury again, the sight of its cruel barbs a balm to his disquiet.

"They will all die," he roared, the words echoing through the ruined alley. The familiar heat of rage bloomed in his chest, pushing aside the unwelcome thoughts. He was Angron, the Red Angel. He was war. And the bunker complex below would drown in his fury.