Just as the Battle of Armageddon reached a remarkably bizarre conclusion...
On the other side of the galaxy—
In the Caliban Sector.
Forces stemming from the Warp tore a Mandeville point into a rift, and a gargantuan warship sailed forth.
This was one of the Gloriana-class battleships, the most powerful voidships in the fleets of Chaos—the Iron Warriors' Gloriana-class flagship, the 'Iron Blood'.
Perturabo frowned.
The Caliban Sector.
The name alone brought him displeasure.
Before coming here, Lorgar had repeatedly urged him not to show up in a Gloriana-class flagship.
Lorgar's reasoning was that a warship of this scale was far too conspicuous and would alert too many enemies who ought not to be disturbed.
Perturabo had treated those words with utter scorn.
What a joke.
He was Perturabo. Primarch of the Iron Warriors. The Lord of Iron of Olympia.
Sneak in stealthily aboard a light cruiser?
How could he possibly adopt such a sneaky, underhanded style?
And so, here he stood.
The bridge of the 'Iron Blood' was located in the deepest recess of the hull, encased in layer upon layer of heavy armor plating.
Unlike the open, vaulted command bridges typical of standard Gloriana-class warships, the bridge of the 'Iron Blood' was a completely sealed iron chamber.
The dense arrays of sensor screens lining the walls served as the giant vessel's only eyes.
Perturabo's gaze swept across the main display.
As the 'Iron Blood' drew closer to its target destination, the parameters of an otherwise unassuming planet were gradually analyzed and decoded.
Perturabo's frown deepened.
'Dammit, what on earth is that secretive bastard Lorgar up to now?'
After parting ways inside the Webway, Lorgar had provided these coordinates, telling Perturabo that only by arriving here could the next stage of Chaos's grand design commence.
What in the world was going on?
Just then, a low chime echoed from the sensor array.
A single contact was closing on the 'Iron Blood' at high speed.
A shuttle.
Perturabo's gaze locked onto that blip of light.
He said nothing, simply folding his heavy arms across his chest plate.
Behind him, the gathered Iron Warriors instantly snapped to attention, their bodies tensing.
Several Iron Warriors warband leaders exchanged uneasy glances, yet none dared to speak or ask questions.
They merely looked upon that massive, silent back with profound awe.
These Iron Warriors warbands scattered across the galaxy had been corralled by Perturabo through the most uncompromising, iron-fisted methods the moment he stepped out of the Webway.
Edicts from the Lord of Iron were absolute and indisputable.
They could only obey.
This was Perturabo's way.
Yet during his search, Perturabo had found it quite perplexing that he hadn't encountered many ten-thousand-year veterans.
In particular, Forrix—his own First Captain—was nowhere to be found, leaving him thoroughly puzzled.
'Where the hell did they all die off to?'
With a dull metallic clang, the shuttle completed its docking sequence.
A thick stench of rot and decay flooded into the bridge first, causing the Iron Warriors present to knit their brows in disgust.
Several warband leaders instinctively took a step back.
Perturabo remained motionless.
Then, the figure emerged.
Massive.
Bloated.
Deformed.
His body had expanded by a full margin compared to before his rebellion, his entire form wrapped in layers upon layers of festering chitin.
Upon his back rested a pair of massive, tattered moth wings encrusted with mold and lesions. A scythe was gripped in his hand, a rebreather mask covered his face, and green flames burned within his hollow eye sockets while a buzzing swarm of plague flies circled around him.
Mortarion.
Primarch of the Fourteenth Legion, the Death Guard.
Favored child of Nurgle.
Perturabo scrutinized this brother of his.
Truth be told, the relationship between them could hardly be described as good or bad.
During the Great Crusade, Mortarion's sullen, stubborn demeanor shared a certain resemblance to his own.
Both were men of few words, both were somewhat lacking in warmth, and both harbored quiet discontent toward certain decisions made by their Father.
Yet that was all. No true camaraderie had ever blossomed between them.
When the Great Heresy erupted, both found themselves in Horus's camp—working alongside each other without warmth, and parting ways without regret.
"I see," Perturabo spoke first.
"The person Lorgar wanted me to meet was you."
Mortarion did not answer right away.
That huge, misshapen frame lingered in the shadows, as though needing a moment to adjust to the dry air of this fully enclosed bridge.
Then, he took a step forward. The deck plates beneath his feet rusted instantly, dark green corrosion spreading across the metallic surface at a speed visible to the naked eye.
Perturabo looked at those rust spots.
He did not fly into a rage, merely asking in a cold voice, "What exactly is the plan of the Four Gods of Chaos? How do I find Dorn?"
Straight to the point.
No pleasantries.
No greetings.
He simply couldn't be bothered to engage in any unnecessary banter with this creature radiating foul rot.
Perturabo's patience was never bountiful, and whenever Rogal Dorn was involved, that patience shrank at an exponential rate.
Mortarion slowly raised his rebreather-masked head.
Then, he spoke.
The voice issued from behind the mask—viscous, muffled, accompanied by a gurgling noise like someone drowning.
"Indeed..." Mortarion let out a long sigh.
That sigh dragged on for a very long time, saturated with something beyond description.
"Chaos has arrangements planned for you, Perturabo."
And then, he sighed once more.
The corner of Perturabo's eye twitched slightly.
Frowning, he glared at Mortarion—glared at those eerie green eyes burning behind the rebreather mask, and at those slightly drooping moth wings.
Mortarion's entire demeanor radiated a profound... dejection.
Like someone who had been drained of all fight and ambition, barely dragging a hollow shell to stand here simply because he had to.
This was wrong.
'What is wrong with this guy?'
Perturabo examined Mortarion closely.
This was not the Death Guard Primarch in his memory.
That Mortarion never complained, never showed weakness, and even when forcibly dragged into the embrace of the Plague God, had always maintained his dignity in his own twisted way.
Yet the Mortarion standing before Perturabo now resembled nothing more than an empty shell hollowed of its contents.
Something was distinctly off.
Perturabo could not help but ask with a frown, "What happened to you?"
"Nothing," Mortarion said softly, his tone so dripping with gloom it practically wept. "Simply... a sense of utter helplessness."
"Speak properly."
A edge of impatience crept into Perturabo's voice.
What a joke.
He had finally agreed to the conditions of the Four Gods of Chaos, willing to step into that mantle that once belonged to Horus. Yet the very first brother dispatched to liaise with him brought this level of pitiful dejection?
Mortarion fell silent for a brief moment.
"Do you really..." He paused. Those eerie green eyes fixed straight onto Perturabo, a strange expression suddenly welling up within them.
"Do you really wish to battle that newly arisen deity among humanity?"
His voice sounded so utterly exhausted that before Perturabo could answer, Mortarion added another line: "I simply feel... a bit sorry for you."
'Sorry?'
Perturabo's dark red eyes widened abruptly, the flames surging within them flaring wildly. His lips curled into a snarl: "Sorry? Are you mocking me, Mortarion?"
His voice dropped low.
Accompanying Perturabo's rising fury, the surrounding air turned scorching hot, and dark red light ignited out of nowhere across the metal deck plates.
Several Iron Warriors warband leaders shrank back almost out of pure instinct.
Yet Mortarion did not back away. He merely shook his head slowly: "I mean it in all sincerity."
As a traitor Primarch who had literally been the first to clash head-on with that entity, Mortarion understood better than anyone what that entailed.
There was no outcome.
Fighting that guy yielded no result whatsoever.
No matter what power you brought forth, no matter what traps you laid, no matter how vast the Chaos powers you summoned to aid you—he could always pull out results you never knew existed.
The schemes of Chaos had no effect on him. Within the Warp, he moved with even greater ease than the Four Gods of Chaos themselves.
Against such an enemy, Mortarion could no longer conceive of any way to achieve victory.
Especially when "our Father" stood behind his back as well.
At that thought, nothing but ice remained in Mortarion's heart.
At present, his sole hope was to barely maintain the status quo.
Warp matters resolved in the Warp, physical universe matters resolved in the physical universe—living in mutual non-interference.
If that guy wanted to usher in an era of human prosperity, let him; if he wanted to play house, let him play house. As long as nobody provoked him, what was wrong with staying quietly inside the Warp?
Yet the Four Gods of Chaos did not think this way.
Even Grandfather Nurgle was stirring with restless ambition.
And Mortarion had to obey Grandfather's mandates.
This naked reality made every breath feel like swallowing sludge.
In the end, he nodded with deep reluctance.
"...It is as you say," Mortarion said, his tone still thoroughly lifeless. "In accordance with Grandfather's will, I shall execute the directives of the Four Gods of Chaos—pointing you toward the outcome you desire."
The flames in Perturabo's eyes receded somewhat.
He stared at Mortarion for a few seconds before giving a cold, hard nod—as though that baffling exchange had never transpired at all.
The warnings Mortarion raised were brushed aside by Perturabo with ease, leaving not a single trace behind.
"Very well," Perturabo said, his voice filled with cold, analytical logic. "If I wish to fulfill my plan to locate Dorn, what must be done?"
Mortarion raised his fly-encircled head once more.
"First," he said, "you must acquire the Three Treasures of Caliban in order to unlock the gates to the Webway."
Perturabo raised an eyebrow slightly.
"The Three Treasures of Caliban?"
This was a term he had never heard before. However, considering he had only recently escaped the Webway and possessed vast blanks regarding the changes and secrets of the galaxy over tens of thousands of years, he refrained from pushing further, simply gesturing for Mortarion to continue.
Mortarion said, "This stems from the combined Warp calculations of the Four Gods of Chaos."
"Rogal Dorn's current location is inside the Webway."
Perturabo's pupils contracted slightly.
The Webway.
'As expected.'
He let out a cold sneer in his heart. The board was only so large, and the galaxy was only so big.
Had Dorn been cast into the Warp, the Four Gods of Chaos would have hunted him down and corrupted him ages ago.
The Warp was the home turf of the Chaos Gods; no Primarch could remain hidden there for ten thousand years.
Only the Webway—that intricate, overlapping, ancient labyrinth that even the Four Gods of Chaos could not fully peer into—could trap a Primarch for so long.
"During that disappearance long ago, he was thrown into the Webway due to an accidental Warp displacement," Mortarion recounted slowly. "Only a structure like the Webway could trap him for ten thousand years, casting him into absolute silence, preventing him from fighting his way out, leaving him to wander endlessly in circles within. Coupled with the Webway's inner distortion of time's passage, it is more than enough to leave a trapped soul lost forever."
Perturabo remained silent.
Yet the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.
Dorn.
Trapped inside the labyrinth of the Webway, all alone, with no path of escape, doing nothing but walking in circles for ten full thousand years.
At that image, Perturabo nearly burst into laughter.
He held it in. Yet a glaring glint of sheer delight leaked out from those eyes burning with dark red fire.
This was simply marvelous.
"Since you mentioned that the Three Treasures of Caliban can open a pathway into the Webway," Perturabo pulled the topic back on track, "how should we proceed to collect them?"
Mortarion nodded.
"There is a way," he said. "For certain reasons, I came looking for the Three Treasures of Caliban a long time ago. One of them—the Heart of Plague—was acquired many years ago by my First Captain, Typhus."
He paused briefly.
"The other two have also yielded leads during these recent searches. However... we must plan carefully. There is a vital issue standing directly in our path."
"Speak."
"The remaining two of the Three Treasures of Caliban are both linked to the Rock and the fragments of Caliban," Mortarion said, his tone as despondent as ever, like reading an unalterable death sentence. "To claim them, we must breach the headquarters of the Dark Angels—the Monastery of the Rock."
Perturabo went silent for a moment.
Interesting.
"So, we have to deal with Lion again?"
Recalling his vague intuition from earlier, a complex, indescribable emotion surged in Perturabo's heart.
He had just been hoping to avoid running into the Lion, only for the very first step of the plan to be the Lion's lair.
"More than that," Mortarion shook his head. His misshapen, massive form turned slowly, green eyes fixing directly onto Perturabo.
"This is precisely why I am extremely pessimistic about the path ahead."
His tone turned grave as never before.
"An attack on the Dark Angels' headquarters will not only draw Lion's attention—it will draw 'his' attention."
The air on the bridge suddenly turned heavy.
Perturabo's brow knit tight once more.
"His mobility, in my view, is unprecedented," Mortarion said, his voice flat with numb resignation. "He can effortlessly cross the uncounted star systems of the galaxy, appearing instantly at any location he desires. In this regard, that entity is far more powerful than even our former Father. If we launch a rash attack, he could manifest at any moment—and as for our fate if we face him, I have already given you my view."
Silence.
Perturabo offered no refutation. Arrogant though he was, he was not stupid enough to ignore the warnings of an eyewitness survivor.
Especially when that warning came from Mortarion—the Lord of Death renowned for stubbornness and fortitude.
For Mortarion to be reduced to such a state of helpless despair, it seemed that so-called "entity" was no easy target indeed.
"In that case," Perturabo spoke slowly, his voice regaining its cold composure, "what should be done now?"
Mortarion turned, looking straight at him with those green eyes.
This was the scheme laid down by the Four Gods of Chaos—
"Then, this falls upon you," he stated directly.
"The absolute key is for you to receive the power of the Four Gods of Chaos and become the Warmaster of Chaos."
"Only a true Warmaster—one who commands the unified might of the Four Gods and concentrates all Chaos power within a single vessel—"
Mortarion delivered each word deliberately: "Can hold him off head-on when that entity's attention is diverted elsewhere. And in another corner of the galaxy, we will launch our attack simultaneously."
"This is the only way."