Drums in the cortex.
Static in the skull.
Butcher’s Nails screaming
MAKE THEM ALL DULL.
Red vision.
White noise.
Chainblade choir.
War is my voice.
We don’t march.
We charge.
Armor cracked, teeth bared,
fury stitched into every prayer.
No banners, no mercy, no code—
just gravity dragging us toward bones.
We were slaves before the legion.
We were broken before the name.
Now we carve our freedom
into everything that screams.
ANGRON WALKS.
PLANETS DIE.
No tactics.
No mercy.
No retreat.
Only forward through meat.
Blood for the blood god—
not as ritual,
as requirement.
Skulls don’t decorate thrones—
they measure progress.
We don’t take prisoners.
We take pieces.
Chainaxes chewing through futures,
bolters barking in rage-time.
Every heartbeat is a war crime.
Every breath is frontline.
We don’t remember home.
We remember impact.
Cities collapse under our boots,
cathedrals drown in iron rain.
Hope dies first.
Then everything else follows.
The Nails bite deeper.
Vision turns red.
Thought evaporates.
KILL.
MOVE.
KILL AGAIN.
ANGRON HOWLS THROUGH REALITY.
HIS WRATH IS OUR WEATHER.
We don’t worship gods.
We ARE the catastrophe.
Fists in ribcages.
Teeth in throats.
We paint galaxies
with arterial quotes.
No command structure—
just momentum.
No strategy—
just collision.
World Eaters don’t conquer.
WE ERUPT.
Every planet is temporary.
Every life is currency.
Every scream feeds the engine.
There is no honor.
There is no victory.
Only continuation.
Bloodslick armor.
Cracked ceramite.
Eyes burning like supernovas
in perpetual night.
You run.
We accelerate.
You pray.
We interrupt.
You hide.
We remove walls.
ANGRON LEADS.
WE FOLLOW.
REALITY BLEEDS.
We were made for arenas.
Now the galaxy is one.
No silence.
No stillness.
No end.
Just rage in physical form.
World Eaters.
No peace in blood.
No future in mercy.
Only violence—
perfected.
DeltasCommander
