Chapter 319: It's Already Over
When Kharag, Warsmith of the 'Erasure' warband of Midgard, brought the day's deployment summary to the Iron Blood, a group of Warsmiths were waiting outside the bridge's blast doors.
He clutched the report, his gaze flitting between the massive armored forms of his brothers, quickly assessing the situation.
One Warsmith, with whom he had a reasonably good relationship, shook his head silently at him.
Kharag immediately understood.
The Lord of Iron was throwing a tantrum again.
The 'Eraser' Lord, known for his iron discipline, felt a rare twinge of cowardice. Standing before the iron doors, he couldn't decide whether to enter or retreat.
An aura terrifying enough to unsettle even a veteran Astartes seeped from behind the plain iron doors—a dreadful oppression mixed with the scent of burnt oil and warp corruption.
The warband lord nervously gripped his report, wondering if he should activate the access panel.
The date was at the top: 12th Day, 12th Month. Following it were nearly ninety pages of logistical data.
Every day, he spent less than a minute approving these documents and reporting them. Unless the Iron Lord made specific requests, this report was summarized by the newly formed Council of Twelve, usually based on statistical analysis algorithms.
It wasn't until the iron doors cracked open like a living mouth and swallowed the data-slate from Kharag's hand that the Iron Warriors' steward stepped back two paces as if granted a pardon.
A jet of depressurization steam hissed from his armor joints, and he practically fled the oppressive corridor.
Meanwhile, on the silent bridge, where the only background noise was the drip of coolant from condensation pipes and the low hum of servo-systems, Forrix watched the report scroll across his unmoving gaze.
He looked at the names.
[Company] [Regiment] [Division] [Officer Sequence] [Support Battalion Designation] [Auxilia Formation]...
The name of every unit selected by the Iron Lord was displayed like a dissected specimen. They were chosen not for honor or sentiment, but simply because their coordinates were optimal, their combat efficiency curves met the standard, and their logistical supply lines were the shortest—
They were chosen by cold machine logic.
Just like the three of them standing before the Iron Lord now.
Forrix clenched his jaw slightly, knowing the moment to endure pain was inevitable.
He felt no nervousness because, based on years of experience, if Perturabo didn't kill you immediately, he simply wanted to talk. So, until he answered the question, his life was undoubtedly protected.
It was tragic that one could get used to such things.
"..."
After a long silence, Perturabo handed the report to Forrix and turned to face the auspex display.
It showed an offensive.
An anticipated offensive.
It was an offensive where the Iron Lord, despite only having full command over a portion of the World Eaters and most of the Iron Warriors, had still managed to achieve a significant portion of his tactical objectives.
But what about the others? What were they doing?
The Slaaneshi warbands were playing their role-playing games, turning entire planets into stages for their madness.
The Khornate warbands were indulging in time-wasting massacres, killing their own allies in the process.
The Nurgle warbands were listless due to a massive shortage of Plaguebearers. While slacking off was somewhat acceptable, some bored, brain-damaged Tzeentchian warband had apparently provoked the Purge—a Nurgle faction representing the aspect of sterile death, diametrically opposed to the traditional Nurgle forces of fecundity. Now, the three sides were engaged in a passionate free-for-all.
The remaining warbands were fighting to the death over a few scraps of human sacrifices, attacking allies or abandoning the main force to adventure on planets heavily fortified by the Imperium.
Forrix flipped through the report. He saw what the units that had taken the ships, daemon engines, and loot produced by the Iron Warriors were doing.
In Chaos, everyone had their own business to attend to.
"That was an order," Perturabo said to the three men before him, speaking casually as he watched the superheated steam hissing endlessly before him, hot enough to turn a man into boiled meat in an instant.
No one dared to breathe.
"That was my order!"
The Iron Lord's voice suddenly rose, shaking the keel of the entire battleship.
"The order to attack was given to Fulgrim!"
"Who does he think he is, to be so bold? To dare defy my command?"
The entire ship trembled with the Iron Lord's emotions. His furious voice penetrated the deck and the steel walls, making the Warsmiths outside shiver.
Everyone subconsciously glanced at the Dreadnought standing among them.
The iron, coffin-like machine of torment looked so safe and secure right now.
They all felt they should get one for themselves.
On the bridge, a suspended psyker was mechanically flayed from the inside out. Steam evaporated his blood, forming an image that clearly showed the Prince of Pleasure holding an absurd triumph on a poison-shrouded world.
People were weeping, chasing. Even with their feet worn to the bone, their bodies dehydrated from crying, their flesh stripped to the bone by sharp thorns, they raised their hands high, crying and running toward the shining golden figures.
That was their sun, the glory of all mankind.
They cried, shouting Fulgrim's name.
Lost in emotion, ruthless, heedless of life!
"So fallen, to this extent."
The Iron Lord's voice was bone-chillingly cold.
"What do the Four Gods want? Don't they crave my more excellent brothers? Yet they send these useless playthings to fool me?"
"Parasites enjoying the fruits of others' labor. All these Chaos Lords combined are nothing but rice buckets who only know how to eat, stinking fish and rotten shrimp with no value whatsoever."
The more Perturabo spoke, the more genuine his feelings became.
He couldn't help but recall the Siege of Terra.
"For so many years, these dregs have only known how to drag me down."
The hydraulics of his power armor whined like a wounded beast.
"Whether it's the Imperium or Chaos, these things are constantly sabotaging me, restricting me!"
"My orders are treated as wind past the ear. How can I possibly command the overall situation under these circumstances?"
Perturabo had turned away.
He stood, panting heavily, staring into the foul darkness outside the viewport.
He gazed, as if seeing something in the dark—something twisted, greedy, visible only to him.
"It's all over."
He said to the darkness.
With this sentence, accompanied by the roar of the main engines shutting down, the entire ship fell into an eerie silence. Only the sound of Perturabo's breathing echoed from his chest like a rusty piston.
"My lord, it is not over yet."
Khârn's voice pierced the silence. He looked at his two colleagues, silent as iron, and continued without hesitation:
"This is a glorious war."
"Because we foresaw it. Because we craved it. A war led by Primarchs, a war against Primarchs."
"If you choose to retreat..."
The Betrayer's hand rested on the data-slate in front of him.
"...then I will leave."
"Heh heh heh..."
Perturabo began to sneer.
He finally showed an expression representing a positive emotion, meeting the Betrayer's gaze, seeing the faint fire in Khârn's eyes.
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