"Son, what else do you need?" Dammekos asked cheerfully.
Perturabo said, "This is enough."
The Tyrant's private engineering workshop had everything, even though he hadn't used it in a long time.
Dammekos had been passionate about it in his youth, but he became too busy. The city-state of Lochos and its people depended on him.
Years of comfortable living had made him corpulent, and his authority no longer allowed him to engage in such rough work.
But stepping back into the workshop still lifted Dammekos's spirits. His son would be using it now.
It meant something was being passed down through his offspring, even if Perturabo wasn't his biological child.
Perturabo inspected the tools, bellows, anvil, forge.
His gaze slowly swept over everyone in the courtyard, parents, sister, brothers, and Caelan.
There were no outsiders here. All were his family.
His eyes lingered on Caelan for a moment, then moved away.
He had promised to prepare a gift in return for Caelan, but that gift now seemed inadequate.
Caelan had given him the Evolution Truster. He couldn't give a hastily prepared gift in return; he had to offer something truly worthy.
Herakon's gaze was especially intense, filled with anticipation for Perturabo's upcoming gift.
Perturabo could even sense the complex emotions mixed in that anticipation, a desire for recognition, tinged with anxiety. He was the firstborn, born with the burden of honor.
He was Dammekos's heir. He would be Dammekos IX, or some other title.
But he wasn't outstanding. People often felt he wasn't up to the task, couldn't measure up to his father.
Dammekos often showed worry, could his son keep Lochos strong? Could he uphold the family's honor?
Herakon had never truly earned his father's recognition. It made him uneasy.
And this feeling was almost identical to Perturabo's.
"Twistedness."
Perturabo suddenly realized that, in fact, everyone had a twisted side hidden within them, just to varying degrees.
He had been more twisted than anyone before.
Caelan had taught him that human needs are divided into five levels, physiological, safety, love and belonging, esteem, and self-actualization.
He was a primarch, born above mortals. He feared no danger.
Physiological and safety needs never troubled him.
But love and belonging might haunt him his whole life. He would instinctively seek approval and acceptance from others.
But he was too twisted. When warmth and care came, he cruelly shut them out.
If he couldn't confront his own weakness, he would be trapped forever.
Perturabo's hand ran over the displayed iron ingots. The cold of the metal seeped into his skin.
He picked one up casually, tapping it lightly on the anvil, producing a clear, resonant note.
He listened carefully to the subtle overtones of each ingot, like a musician tuning their instrument.
Knowledge flowed into his mind; the grain, density, and impurities of each ingot were laid bare before him. He chose the best one.
He took that ingot straight into the forge fire. The leaping flames licked his skin.
He heard the Tyrant and his sister gasp, but Caelan remained silent.
Caelan knew him. He trusted that Perturabo wasn't acting without reason.
Yet, inexplicably, a sense of irritation welled up in him. 'Why couldn't Caelan be worried about me?'
Smack!
The crisp slap drew shocked looks from everyone.
Perturabo rubbed his reddened cheek, expressionless, muttering, "Mosquito."
It was just a fleeting thought, already extinguished.
But even thinking it was wrong. Thinking it was a crime!
"Son, at least wear gloves."
Dammekos's eyes were a mix of concern and alarm. Even in battle, he'd never been so shaken.
Perturabo didn't argue with his father. He silently pulled on thick leather gloves and picked up tongs to retrieve the glowing ingot.
Steel never bends. Only in the refining fire does it soften, its unyielding nature forged into a blade.
Perturabo threw himself into the work.
His movements were dazzlingly fast, far quicker than Lochos's most experienced blacksmith.
The metal seemed to come alive under his hands. With hammer blows as dense as rain, sparks flew like brilliant stars, dancing and spinning on the marble floor before fading.
"I, too, am steel," Perturabo thought as he worked.
He was unyielding steel, but he was not a blade.
He was not sharp. Unforged and untempered, he was too blunt.
He could be a hammer, heavy, powerful, unstoppable, crushing his enemies with every swing.
But he was not a blade, not precise enough, not swift enough.
He was not an iron fist, unable to conform to the hand.
He was too clumsy, too heavy.
Clang! Perturabo hammered.
He was crude steel, unrefined, impurities not removed.
He longed to become a blade, yet resisted the forging fire and the countless hammer blows.
What was holding him back?
Impurities. Twistedness.
Crude steel is born rough, with inherent cracks and flaws. It is both hard and brittle.
If not refined, crude steel will become scrap, covered in rust. No wall stands forever; no steel is impervious to wear.
Cracks spread, wear increases. A blade can chip in battle.
Then, one should return to the forge.
Through a thousand temperings and ten thousand hammerings, cast off impurities, shed the marks of age.
Clang! Perturabo hammered, shaping.
Refinement removes impurities, like those brilliant sparks.
They are beautiful for only a moment, leaving debris behind when they fall, revealing their true nature as coarse, dark fragments.
Clang!
Steel reshapes itself in the fire, but also wears down under the hammer.
If not reforged, it will eventually be worn away.
From hammer to blade, from blade to dagger, until it can no longer be forged into any weapon.
Clang!
He reshaped steel with a will more metal than steel itself. Through countless hammer blows, he forged the rough billet into a new blade.
Clang!
Steel is honest and true, straight and unyielding. It holds no treachery, no deceit.
It is the metal of warriors, not delicate like gold.
Sweat soaked Perturabo's clothes. Salty droplets blurred his vision.
But whenever a bead of sweat threatened to fall into his eye, an invisible hand would gently wipe it away.
Clang!
So, gold has its meaning too. It is precious and exquisite, rare by nature, an art form.
Gold can adorn steel, just as art can adorn a warrior.
It stays on the surface, never softening the steel.
It is merely decoration to awe the enemy.
Clang!
The blade was forged in fire, hammered repeatedly, tempered again and again.
Each strike drew a resonant ring from the metal. Sparks flew, leaving tiny scorch marks on the floor.
But it was growing tougher, sharper.
Hiss!
The red-hot blade was plunged into the quenching pool. The water surface erupted in rolling white steam.
The metal hissed in the heat. Steam filled the workshop. Time passed.
Perturabo wiped the sweat from his brow and took the weapon by its tang.
The blade was plain, without decoration, its edge not yet sharpened, still rough.
Forging had given the steel the shape of a sword, but one step remained: sharpening.
Perturabo walked to the grindstone, blade in hand. Steel met stone, sparks flying.
As he worked, the rough edge grew smooth. The blade's grain became clearer. A cold gleam ran along its spine.
Perturabo's wrist suddenly twisted. The blade hummed through the air, its edge gleaming!
"Excellent sword!"
Herakon applauded excitedly. Though he knew little of forging, this sword looked magnificent!
Dammekos was even more astounded. 'Perturabo's skill was masterful. Hard to believe this was only a six-year-old child!'
Perturabo wrapped the hilt in leather and sheathed the sword in the golden scabbard he had already made. It fit perfectly.
"Brother, accept this." The boy held the sword level with both hands, presenting it to Herakon.
Herakon received the longsword ecstatically, caressing the ornate scabbard with care.
The leather-wrapped hilt fit his palm perfectly. This sword had been made for him.
As he slowly drew the blade, the cold gleam reflected the undisguised excitement in his eyes.
Dammekos frowned. He genuinely liked this sword.
'Herakon didn't need it for battle; giving it to him was such a waste. Better to leave it with me!'
But Dammekos suppressed that selfish thought. Reluctant as he was, it was a gift Perturabo had personally forged for Herakon. It wouldn't be right to take it.
Besides, Perturabo was his son. He could just have him forge another sword later!
"Is he even human?" Andos's face was etched with disbelief. Then, realizing his gaffe, his cheeks flushed crimson. He lowered his head, flustered. "I... I didn't mean that. I'm sorry."
Is a Primarch human?
From a biological standpoint, it's hard to say.
Adult Primarchs generally stand four meters tall or more, partly to accommodate their various special organs.
Each organ is the Emperor's masterpiece. The nineteen organs of the Space Marine implantation process are the simplest. Primarchs have a vast array of complex organs whose secrets remain unrevealed.
Even possessing a Primarch's original genetic sample, it would be difficult to uncover all their organs' secrets.
Yet the genetic foundation of a Primarch is still human.
They must be human, and can only be human.
"It's fine." Perturabo shook his head gently, prompting Dammekos to swallow the reprimand he was about to give his second son.
Perturabo walked to the easel. The image was already fully formed in his mind; his movements were as natural as breathing.
Calliphone tiptoed closer. When she saw the emerging outline on the canvas, her bright eyes widened in surprise, her rosy lips parting slightly.
The brush seemed alive in Perturabo's hand. In just ten minutes, a lifelike portrait was complete.
Andos took the painting, dazed. "For me?"
Caelan asked, "What is this painting called?"
Perturabo replied, "To Andos."
Andos looked down at the painting. In it, he sat under a tree in the garden, bathed in soft morning light, reading a book. Dappled shadows danced across his face.
"Is this really me?"
Andos touched his face unconsciously. He did enjoy reading under the tree in the garden.
'But how did Perturabo know?'
Sensing his thought, Perturabo said, "I saw you once."
He had considered painting grand mountains and rivers, or the brilliant stars.
But he gave up on those ideas. He chose the boy under the tree.
Because of meaning.
Grand mountains and rivers, brilliant stars, they were indeed magnificent.
But what did they have to do with Andos?
A gift like that would be meaningless, mere showing off.
So, better to paint a person. Paint Andos himself.
That was the most meaningful.
"Only once? And you could paint me so lifelike?" Andos choked up.
"I hope you like it, Andos... brother."
The word 'brother' came out a little awkwardly, because his brother was crying.
Not stifled sobs, but heart-wrenching wails.
Perturabo was stunned.
'It was just a painting, an ordinary portrait. What was Andos crying about?'
"Stop crying." Herakon leaned in close, lowering his voice. "Everyone's watching."
Andos wiped his tears with his sleeve, but couldn't stop the sobs. "Th-thank you, brother. Thank you for painting me so beautifully. This is the most precious gift I've ever received!"
Dammekos edged closer, beaming. "Son, what about my gift?"
Perturabo was prepared. He had Calliphone bring out a laurel crown.
This crown was meticulously woven from pure gold olive leaves, each vein clearly visible. Brilliant gems adorned the leaves, sparkling in the light.
The craftsmanship of this crown was far more complex than the sword or the painting. Perturabo had prepared it long in advance.
"Father, I hope you like it."
Dammekos eagerly removed his own crown and placed the new one on his head like a sacred relic. The golden olive leaves gleamed in his hair.
"Calliphone, how is it?" Dammekos turned to Calliphone, his smug voice like a child showing off a new toy.
"Father, it complements your bearing perfectly. It shows the majesty of a king while retaining its original simplicity and elegance."
Dammekos laughed heartily, patting Perturabo on the shoulder with a broad hand. "Good son, good son!"
This was the crown he desired, simple yet exquisitely beautiful!
Caelan asked, "What about my return gift?"
Perturabo glanced at Calliphone, then turned solemnly to Caelan, "Aren't Calliphone and I the best gift you could ask for?"
Calliphone gently took Caelan's arm, playfully coaxing, "Yes, isn't having me enough? Brother Caelan!"
Caelan had said it himself: seeing his students succeed was his greatest reward.
Caelan deliberately kept a straight face, but the smile in his eyes was unmistakable.
He smiled. Perturabo didn't.
He stared at Calliphone's arm. She was holding on too tightly!
Who said having her was enough? What about him?
Calliphone had no sense of boundaries!
Perturabo hated that the most.
Smack!
Another crisp slap broke the warm atmosphere. A faint mark appeared on Perturabo's left cheek. He muttered, "Damn mosquitoes!"
This time, it really was a mosquito.
Human civilization expanded across the galaxy, but these damn mosquitoes expanded too?
Mosquitoes couldn't cross the void alone. It had to be a conspiracy! Who was it?
....
"My Lord!" Zoris scrambled to his feet as Perturabo entered.
Perturabo stared at the boy. "Zoris, tell me, what do you want to do? What can you do? What are you able to do?"
"I... I can..."
Zoris lowered his head dejectedly. It seemed he couldn't do anything.
Perturabo snapped, "Head up! Look me in the eyes! Answer me!"
Zoris flinched. His face reddened, and he clenched his jaw. "I, I am willing to give my life for you!"
He seemed to have exhausted all his strength, his body shaking like a leaf.
"Remember what you said today."
"The old barracks in the commoner district have been renovated into an orphanage. All orphans can go there. Even non-orphans under twelve can go."
"Starting tomorrow, your job is to recruit for the orphanage."
Zoris asked timidly, "My Lord, how can someone like me recruit people?"
"Spread the word on the streets, or find other orphans directly. You wandered Lochos for a long time; you probably know quite a few. Get them all mobilized. Tell them the orphanage is free, with free room and board and free education. Do you think anyone will come?"
Zoris nodded earnestly. "Yes, my Lord. As long as room and board are free, people will come!"
Not just orphans. Commoner children would come to save their families money.
Even nobles' children might join, because the orphanage was run by the royal family and carried Perturabo's name.
His legend had spread throughout Lochos. Everyone spoke his name.
Everyone wanted to see what made this boy so special.
Nobles' children wouldn't come for food and lodging, but for contact with Perturabo.
They didn't care about the food either. They wouldn't be used to barley bread; they'd bring their own.
These things were foreseeable. Perturabo had considered all possibilities.
But he still had concerns.
Perturabo murmured to himself, "Will I be a good teacher?"
He was only six. Maybe not even six.
He had amnesia; he didn't remember when he came to Olympia.
But knowledge told him he was growing much faster than a mortal.
The legend of him slaying the Hydra had been circulating for eight months, and the Ipir Dae within a year.
His true age might be only one.
The legendary boy was someone who hunted the Hydra to protect villagers. People revered him, loved him.
He had no memory of this. If he did, would he have become that boy too?
"No."
Perturabo lowered his head, gripping the Evolution Truster in his hand, murmuring, "I will become better than him!"