"Herakon has also left the palace?" Dammekos frowned.
"Yes, Tyrant." The attendant stepped forward, his voice very low. "None of them brought guards. Should we send men for discreet protection?"
"No need." Dammekos shook his head. "Sending people to follow them could easily cause unnecessary misunderstandings. With Caelan there, we don't need to worry about them encountering danger."
'If someone could actually kill under Caelan's watchful eye, sending guards would be useless anyway.'
Dammekos sighed softly. "Ultimately, it's because I'm useless."
The Tyrant was self-aware. He could never become a pioneering ruler like his ancestor, Dammekos I.
For six hundred years, Lochos's formidable walls had deterred all invaders. Lochos's prosperity was among the best of the twelve city-states.
These were the achievements of his ancestors. Those who came after were merely caretakers. None could surpass the deeds of their forebears.
That's why he pinned his hopes on Perturabo. Only this child could fulfill his ambitions.
Whether he was a child gifted by the gods or not, his extraordinariness was real.
Herakon was as mediocre as he was, but not completely useless.
A caretaker could at least preserve Lochos's foundations. What was truly frightening were descendants with grand ambitions but lacking talent, trying to restore their ancestors' glory, only to end in disastrous defeat.
Herakon's current mindset was exactly the same as Dammekos's in his youth. He, too, had been anxious before his Naming Day, afraid he wouldn't be worthy of his ancestor's name, that he would stain the family's honor.
He was both lucky and unlucky.
He lost his father early and succeeded to the throne young.
For the first two years of his reign, he was also anxious and uneasy, often manipulated by his ministers and nobles.
Now, he was a qualified Tyrant.
Circumstances create heroes. Sitting in this position, he naturally gained experience. Wasn't that what so-called 'bearing' came from?
But he had nothing to teach Herakon. Only when Herakon sat in this position could he have the same understanding.
But the Tyrant wouldn't easily give up his throne, not even to his eldest son.
"My son, may your future be boundless." The Tyrant's murmur was tinged with self-mockery and expectation.
"My Lord, Mondak Yuminos requests an audience."
"Show him in."
Mondak Yuminos was the third-ranking member of Lochos's Twelve Wise Men. Nominally elected, their actual status depended largely on the Tyrant.
Mondak's abilities might not surpass the other Wise Men, but he was Dammekos's confidant, so he held the third seat.
"My Lord." Mondak bowed to Dammekos.
Dammekos immediately asked in surprise, "Mondak, how did you know that the laurel crown was a gift from Perturabo to me?"
.....
"Why adopt so many orphans?"
On the way down the mountain, Herakon couldn't help asking quietly.
Caelan didn't stop walking or explain. It was Perturabo who answered.
"In five years, they will become excellent warriors. In ten years, they will unify Olympia for me."
"Can they really do it?" Herakon didn't understand. He truly lacked the talent to be a ruler.
Perturabo said, "The gap in status between nobles and commoners is like the difference between heaven and earth. Nobles intermarry for generations, almost monopolizing women with exceptional appearances. The attractiveness of their offspring is often higher than commoners. But the genes of nobles and commoners are neither superior nor inferior."
"Commoners' children just lack opportunities. I will give them opportunities."
Monopoly is human nature.
The nobility monopolized all resources, including education. So commoners remained commoners their whole lives.
Even resources they couldn't use, they wouldn't give away for free.
But nobles and commoners still had no fundamental difference. What distinguished them was never bloodline, but resources.
So nobles must weave gilded lies with bloodline, etiquette, and titles, pretending they were born nobler.
If you truly dissect it, the ancestors of all Olympians could be traced back to Terra ten thousand years ago.
Go back a few tens of thousands of years further, and their ancestors were cave-dwelling primitives.
If they could mutate into psykers or perpetuals, or gain the chance to become Space Marines or even Custodes, then their genes would indeed be nobler than mortals'. The difference would be insurmountable by mere effort.
Otherwise, everyone was the same.
Perturabo despised the lies of the nobility. He treated nobles, commoners, and slaves equally.
But Perturabo didn't believe in equality for all. In his eyes, people had different statuses, but these differences were determined by value, not bloodline.
Some were clever, some dull.
Some were born strong, others weak and sickly.
Some begged for a living and ended up ruling the world.
Some were grandsons of serfs and became national leaders.
Some royal families practiced inbreeding for generations, and the sole heir was suspected of being intellectually disabled.
Individual differences were an objective fact. Presented with the same opportunity, some achieved great success, while others achieved nothing.
These differences had nothing to do with bloodline. As long as individual differences existed, absolute fairness could not exist.
What people wanted was relative fairness.
At the founding of a dynasty, the gap in relative fairness was smallest.
But over time, the nobility monopolized or consolidated various resources, and the gap grew wider and wider.
This was Lochos today. Nobles and priests had monopolized almost all resources. Class barriers made class mobility a luxury.
This required a system to guarantee the basis of relative fairness. Unfortunately, Lochos's system was too rigid. That's why reform was necessary.
Herakon didn't understand these principles, but Perturabo did. He gave those orphans opportunities, and they would offer him their loyalty.
"My Lord."
Miltiades, with a squad of soldiers, knelt on one knee outside the orphanage.
Perturabo asked, "Miltiades, how many children have we taken in so far?"
Miltiades answered, "Currently, one hundred and seventy-three. Not all are orphans; many are commoners' children."
Just as Caelan had predicted, many commoners sent their children to get free meals.
Since the orphanage was run by the royal family, its credibility was assured.
Perturabo pondered for a moment. "Since not all are orphans, calling it an orphanage is no longer appropriate. From now on, rename it the Anvil Camp!"
Perturabo didn't like the name 'orphanage.' It felt like it was referring to him.
Calliphone tilted her head slightly. "A-Bo, why 'Anvil'?"
Perturabo answered without hesitation, "The anvil is the beginning of forging. They are crude steel, unrefined, full of impurities."
"They will be refined here. I will be the hammer that forges them!"
Perturabo didn't compare commoners' children to crude steel out of arrogance. In his eyes, everyone was crude steel.
Olympians lacked the technology to forge steel. But he would forge these children into sharp blades!
"Only through countless hammer blows does fine steel emerge!"
Perturabo ordered, "Miltiades, assemble everyone."
Miltiades bowed his head. "As you command, my Lord."
Though Perturabo was only six years old, the young boy exuded an undeniable authority.
That authority was identical to the Tyrant's, perhaps even surpassing it.
When Perturabo gave an order, Miltiades obeyed almost reflexively.
The Anvil Camp was formerly the old barracks, and it still retained many fully militarized facilities.
Under Miltiades's sharp commands, the one hundred and seventy-four children managed to form a crooked, uneven square. Zoris was among them.
Perturabo stood on the platform, surveying the children lined up below.
They were ragged, thin, and their ranks were askew, far from his ideal image of warriors.
But Perturabo's eyes showed no disappointment. Precisely because they were crude steel, they needed him, the hammer, to remove their impurities!
Otherwise, what was the point of him?
Perturabo stroked the Evolut Truster in his arms and murmured, "Become the light, Perturabo!"
Just as Caelan had envisioned.
He was a Primarch, born to be the most brilliant star, whether in day or night!
Perturabo's piercing gaze swept over the crowd, gradually falling into silence.
He was a Primarch, born with knowledge, but he didn't know how to teach children.
If he were facing a group of warriors, he could impassioned tell them why they fought, stirring their fighting spirit.
But he was facing children. They couldn't comprehend grand ideals; they were illiterate. They came here just to fill their stomachs.
They were still at the level of physiological needs. They understood nothing.
Perturabo realized he had made a mistake. He had been speechless before he even began. They must learn to read before they can acquire knowledge.
They must have dignity before they can learn to cherish it.
They must have their basic needs met before they can pursue higher ideals.
But he was just a child himself.
He couldn't give them any of this now.
Steel requires countless hammer blows and tempering. Knowledge requires daily accumulation over time.
Nothing can be achieved overnight. They had to learn.
But what should he do now?
Perturabo fell silent. He felt stuck on stage.
'Why did I come up here?'
It was his damned twisted psychology, his eagerness to prove to Caelan that he was worthy of this expectation!
But he had been too impatient. Neither he nor these children were ready.
He had rushed to show Caelan the fine steel before he had even started hammering.
Now he was in a predicament, and it was his own fault!
Perturabo wanted to slap a mosquito, but he held back.
He couldn't slink off the stage. He had to say something!
But what could he say now?
The children looked up at him with a mix of expectation and fear, shifting uneasily in their ranks.
They were curious why Perturabo hadn't spoken yet, and afraid of being punished.
"Growl!"
Someone's stomach protested. Perturabo's brow furrowed. "They haven't eaten yet?"
Miltiades knelt on one knee. "My Lord, forgive me. The kitchen is hurrying to prepare food."
The Anvil Camp was a key project funded by the royal family. Funds were ample, and the renovation of the old barracks was progressing quickly. Miltiades, by Dammekos's command, had also led his soldiers to serve as instructors.
But they had simply forgotten to hire a cook for the camp.
The camp's storeroom was piled high with supplies sent by the royal family, sacks of flour stacked like small mountains.
But the flour couldn't be eaten directly; it needed kneading, fermenting, and baking to become edible bread.
Growing children needed nourishment, and preparing food for over a hundred hungry kids was an inhuman amount of work!
This burden had fallen entirely on Miltiades and his soldiers, but Perturabo had ordered them to assemble, and they dared not disobey.
Perturabo's expression was solemn. "Dismissed! Go eat first. I don't need hungry warriors!"
"Huzzah!"
A young voice suddenly rang out in the crowd.
When the surrounding eyes focused on him, he covered his mouth timidly.
Perturabo had intended to maintain a serious expression, but then he changed his mind. He raised his voice and shouted, "I can't hear you! Louder!"
"Huzzah! Huzzah!!"
The children shed their previous restraint and cheered with all their might. They didn't know who was standing on the platform, but if he let them eat their fill, he was worthy of their cheers!
Only Herakon leaned closer to Calliphone, lowering his voice, "Did he forget his lines?"
Perturabo tilted his head slightly. He heard that.
He had never had a script. He had been overconfident, believing he would never be at a loss for words.
Even the most discerning philosopher couldn't match his mental agility. But his sharpness was directed at adults; it didn't work on children.
Profound truths were like gibberish to children. Dry lecturing would only make them sleepy.
Telling stories, however, could make them listen attentively. Vivid tales could subtly impart wisdom, nurturing them without force.
That's how Caelan had taught him.
Perturabo paused. It seemed he knew how to teach these children.
Because Caelan had already shown him the method!
.....
The smell of bread wafted through the Anvil Camp's cafeteria. The children sat around long tables, eyes fixed on the instructors distributing freshly baked barley loaves.
They weren't really loaves, but thick flatbreads, made by simply flattening unfermented dough and baking it. They were far less fluffy and sweet than the pastries on nobles' tables.
But barley bread didn't require a baker's oven, was simple to make, and had a longer shelf life.
The ravenous children devoured them. Whatever it was, if it filled their stomachs, it was a delicacy.
"Crunch!" Herakon took a bite.
The flatbread had no bran or sawdust; it wasn't too hard to swallow. He wasn't that delicate.
Chewing, he asked indistinctly, "Are we going to stay here all day?"
Perturabo said, "Starting today, I will train with them every day."
Herakon almost choked. "Why?"
Perturabo's gaze swept over the children. "If you want people to follow you willingly, you must earn their respect and make them feel you are one of them."
Herakon grimaced. He ultimately couldn't let go of his dignity; he was a prince.
Perturabo slowly tore at his flatbread. He would eat and train with the Anvil Camp, but not live there.
It wasn't that he coveted the soft beds of the palace, but he was ultimately their leader, and he needed to maintain authority.
He wouldn't mind sleeping at the camp; he could sleep anywhere. But he couldn't bring others down with him.
As for who 'others' were, it wasn't Herakon.
Whatever Herakon chose didn't matter. Perturabo didn't care.
Herakon asked hesitantly, "But if we come here every day, what will the other nobles say?"
"Why do you care about others' opinions?"
Herakon hesitated, not answering.
Perturabo answered for him, "Because they are nobles, and you are a prince. You belong to the same noble class, the same circle."
"So you care about the opinions of nobles, but you don't care about the gossip of commoners. These commoners are destined to be in a different circle from you."
Herakon's lips trembled slightly, as if to defend himself.
"Don't misunderstand, my brother. I'm not accusing you. I'm just stating facts."
"What about you, Perturabo? Which circle do you belong to?"
A trace of reluctance colored Herakon's voice. He knew Perturabo wasn't targeting him, but he couldn't help feeling complex emotions.
"I belong to the circle of humanity."
"So, you love all people equally?"
"No." Perturabo shook his head gently. "I'm not that selfless. But I will guide them."
"Why?"
"Because I have the ability to do so."
Herakon suddenly smiled wryly. "I thought I was arrogant enough, but compared to you, I'm nothing."
Perturabo was right. He didn't consider himself in the same circle as commoners. He only cared about the opinions of noble circles.
But Perturabo cared about no one.
He considered all of humanity as his circle and himself a part of it.
This was no lie.
But all of humanity could be divided into many circles, some horizontal, some vertical. Everyone could find their comfort zone.
Perturabo, however, wanted to shatter all these circles. He belonged only to the whole, transcending the mundane, above all other circles.
Herakon sighed. "Truly high and mighty!"
Perturabo wouldn't love everyone selflessly, but he looked down on everyone equally.
Perturabo turned to Caelan. "What paths did my other brothers choose?"
Caelan said, "Different paths, same destination."
Perturabo still couldn't stop thinking about his brothers. But their paths weren't identical.
No two paths were exactly the same. Even Sanguinius and Fulgrim weren't completely identical.
But they all struggled for the whole of humanity. There was no need to be overly critical of the details.
Perturabo suddenly asked, "What if... I wanted you to walk only on my path?"
"I refuse."
"What if my path is better than theirs?"
"Excellence doesn't require negating others. Even if your path is better than theirs, it doesn't prove their paths are wrong. I won't abandon anyone. I just need to believe in someone."
"So who do you believe in?"
"Everyone."
"Including me?"
"Including you."
Perturabo lowered his head, but a smile crept onto his lips.
He had never wanted to monopolize Caelan, nor had he ever questioned the value of his other brothers' paths. That was never what he wanted.
On the contrary, he feared his brothers would deny his path.
He wasn't 'me.' He was 'them.'
With Caelan's promise, he could forge ahead without looking back!
....
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