Perturabo fell silent.
His arms were crossed, and his eyes—burning with dark red flame—were locked squarely onto Mortarion.
The air inside the bridge had stagnated to an absolute limit. Every Iron Warrior held their breath; even the hum of their armor's servo-systems sounded excruciatingly harsh.
Then, Perturabo let out a brief, icy laugh.
There was not a single shred of pleasure in that laugh—only the fury of being insulted.
"Do you take me for a fool?"
His voice was low and resonant.
"I am genuinely curious, Mortarion—why are you so mind-numbingly foolish to think I would ever agree to such coercive terms?"
Perturabo took a step forward.
The deck plates beneath his boots emitted a harsh, metallic gAdam as the sensor screens lining the bulkheads flashed simultaneously with dark red snow-noise.
"Did you think I couldn't see through this? No—this performance of yours can hardly be called deception anymore."
"Trying to hook me with a bait so blatantly simple and direct? So here is the question: why must I act as your pawn and fight to the death against whatever that so-called deity is?"
Perturabo's chest heaved violently.
Truth be told, he was genuinely angered to the point of laughter.
'Even if I truly, desperately wish to locate Rogal Dorn's position, I am no simpleton!'
'This plan of yours is a downright insult to my status as a Primarch!'
'Even if... even if...'
The exasperated Perturabo searched his mind rapidly, yet failed to recall a single Primarch brother who would ever fall for a provocation so blatantly obvious.
And at that thought, the anger in his heart burned even hotter!
Perturabo's voice abruptly dropped: "Clearly, you have your own calculations at play."
"Speak!"
Accompanying Perturabo's sudden, soaring roar, the entire bridge of the 'Iron Blood' began to quiver slightly.
The Iron Warriors standing behind him tensed their muscles out of sheer instinct, their black power armor emitting a synchronized series of clicks.
Several warband leaders even instinctively drew the power weapons at their waists.
They were not striking a pose.
They were genuinely terrified.
That terror originated from the deepest recesses of their genetics—from Olympia ten thousand years ago, from a scene that could never be forgotten.
That terror was etched into their very DNA.
And right now, it was reawakening.
The sound of weapons unsheathing echoed with absolute clarity inside the sealed chamber.
Several Iron Warriors warband leaders had already trained their gun barrels on Mortarion standing in the center, their fingers resting on the triggers, yet none dared to open fire first.
Mortarion didn't move.
He didn't even glance at the weapons aimed directly at him.
Yet Perturabo reacted faster than anyone.
"Dammit!"
He spun around abruptly, his bellow far more violent than before: "Useless, incompetent fools!"
His gaze swept across the warriors who had drawn their weapons, the fury in his eyes practically threatening to erupt forth.
Under the oppressive glare of his eyes, those Iron Warriors instinctively took half a step back in unison.
Looking at them, Perturabo suddenly felt a deep wave of exhaustion and disappointment.
He began to question whether his judgment had been correct.
He should have brought the Iron Circle along. Even the lowest-tier automata of the Iron Circle possessed far more discipline than these fools.
The Iron Warriors.
His Legion.
The war machine forged by his own hands.
Reduced to such a state today.
He turned his head away, no longer looking at those warband leaders who had lowered their weapons in shame.
Mortarion paid no heed to the offense, nor did he so much as twitch his tattered moth wings; he simply cast his gaze over calmly, shaking his head slowly.
"You are far too impatient, Perturabo."
His voice carried a quality of near-exhausted calm: "Yes, we are not deceiving you. This is a condition you have no choice but to accept."
Perturabo let out a cold sneer.
"'...No choice but to accept?'"
He repeated those words slowly, enunciating each syllable as if crushing them between his teeth.
'I would love to see what on earth this is about!'
Perturabo abruptly raised his arm, pointing toward the deepening emerald haze in the recesses of the bridge: "Fine then. I refuse to take part. I am heading into the depths of the Warp right now—what can you possibly do to stop me?"
He was already preparing to drive his guest out. Yet Mortarion remained entirely unbothered by his behavior.
"Fine. Let it be so," Mortarion said calmly, standing there with flat composure.
"Then tell me: can you truly tolerate Dorn returning to his Chapter, becoming a beacon of adoration for mankind? As he builds one fortress after another, finding his own place within this Imperium?"
"Can you truly accept that?"
The air on the bridge froze instantly.
Perturabo's entire frame locked up on the spot, like an iron statue instantly flash-frozen.
Silence.
A pressure far greater than his previous fury settled over the chamber.
It was a pure, absolute quiet—like the crushing weight of the deep ocean, silent and invisible, yet capable of grinding everything to dust.
Every Iron Warrior froze in place.
None dared to even raise their eyes toward their Primarch's back.
Mortarion continued calmly: "And now, as a Primarch, you must have deduced the changes taking place in the present Imperium through your own means after leaving the Webway."
Perturabo offered an indifferent grunt.
"That proves nothing."
His voice remained cold and rigid, yet the conviction behind it was no longer as unshakeable as before: "Those baseline humans—how much do they exaggerate? Over these ten thousand years, they have even elevated people like us to godhood, all while our actual history was erased. They do not even know how many Primarchs the Emperor created, and you expect me to respect their propaganda?"
Mortarion shook his head slowly. His massive, deformed silhouette looked exceptionally weary within the emerald mist, a few flecks of mold shaking free from the moth wings at his back.
"No," he said. "Their propaganda is not false. Even if it were, you should still be able to see it—the clear fact that the Eye of Terror has been closed, yes?"
Perturabo fell silent.
He wanted to refute it.
He wanted to cite any piece of evidence to counter the claim.
Yet it was impossible.
A Primarch rooted in cold logic could not bring himself to deny a fact so glaringly obvious.
Watching his silence, Mortarion gave a slow, heavy nod.
"That is correct."
His voice suddenly turned candid—so starkly honest it felt unbelievable coming from the notoriously stubborn Lord of Death.
"It was a defeat. A humiliating, disgraceful defeat. I can tell you that without a shred of hesitation."
"The campaign at Cadia transpired not long ago," Mortarion said. "The Four Gods of Chaos united their forces. Almost every traitor Legion participated in the grand siege against that entity. It was a true war fought with everything we possessed. Magnus was there. Fulgrim was there. Everyone was present."
His voice suddenly dropped, fading almost to a quiet murmur: "And then, we lost."
Perturabo's dark red eyes widened sharply.
Mortarion did not look at him, simply continuing: "Chaos suffered an absolute defeat. As a result, Magnus was captured. Fulgrim... has been permanently slain."
Perturabo's eyes bulged instantly.
'We who achieved ascension... can die?'
Such news instantly shattered every single psychological assumption Perturabo had held.
Mortarion paid no mind to his internal turmoil.
"Indeed," he said impassively. "That is the reality of the situation. I can swear upon the most fundamental, grandest underlying logic of the Warp's deepest reaches, Perturabo. Every word I have spoken is absolute truth."
"Furthermore, the Four Gods of Chaos will issue their solemn pledge to you. They will pour their power directly into your body without infusing their will into it. This is not merely to gain your agreement to their plan, but a lesson learned from Horus—to ensure you cannot be exploited by that entity. You shall command boundless, unimaginable might to hold that person off head-on, rather than having the Four Gods fight separate battles like a scattered mess—just like last time."
Perturabo remained silent.
Then, his voice suddenly turned remarkably composed—so calm it felt as though a completely different person had taken over the conversation: "So, what is the true nature of this plan?"
He raised his head, looking straight at Mortarion: "Just as I suspected—it certainly isn't about helping me locate Rogal Dorn."
"Do you still care about that now?" Mortarion asked coldly in response.
"You should be able to grasp the core priority, Perturabo."
Perturabo fell into silence once more.
Mortarion's words were blunt, stripped of all embellishment: "At present, we have thoroughly become part of Chaos; we belong to the Warp. Meanwhile, the physical universe—from all current indications—will achieve ultimate victory."
"Even if the Four Gods of Chaos have issued prophecies, this is no longer the live-and-let-live scenario you envisioned, Perturabo. That is simply impossible."
"That deity of the physical universe will absolute bring about sweeping changes. We do not know his plans, but we can be certain of one thing: if his plan succeeds, there will be no place left for us."
"And then, our loyalist brothers will launch a campaign of vengeance against us. They will hunt us down to the last, nailing us to the pillar of eternal shame."
Mortarion paused.
His voice took on a strange, eerie tone.
"When that time comes, perhaps the one constructing your tomb... will still be Rogal Dorn."
Mortarion continued: "After all, vast armies of the Imperium have already entered the Webway in full force, searching for the missing brothers. It will yield no results in the short term. But over the long run—every single Primarch will return to the Imperium."
Mortarion slowly raised his massive, misshapen head, locking his gaze with Perturabo's eyes.
"Our time is running out."
He said, "Time is on their side."
Perturabo did not reply immediately.
He analyzed the situation. His logical mind was running at overdrive, piecing together every fragment of information.
In the end, Perturabo realized that Mortarion was right.
Time was indeed on their side.
He remained quiet.
Silent for a long time.
Perturabo finally spoke, his voice cold and hard: "You must lay out the complete picture of your plan to me. That is an order."
Looking at Mortarion, the cold, analytical rationality of a Warforge Master reignited within Perturabo's eyes:
"I can agree to become the next Warmaster of Chaos. However, I need to understand your plan. Once I command the combined strength of the Four Gods, I will face that entity—so who will keep our Father in check?"
Mortarion slowly raised his head.
A beam of unprecedented light abruptly flared within those eerie green eyes.
"The Great Devourer, of course."
His voice was no longer muffled, turning clear and razor-sharp: "The apex predator from beyond the Milky Way, the deity of the xenos. It too has recognized the threat posed by that man, and will temporarily align with the Four Gods of Chaos to pin down our Father."
'Even xenos are involved?'
Perturabo let out a dry laugh, finding the prospect quite ironic.
However...
"I don't think that is enough."
His logical mind was burning hot, running every scenario to its extreme: "If that individual's capabilities match the data precisely—even with the combined might of the Four Gods, I may not necessarily emerge victorious. After all, you already have a precedent, don't you?"
He stared at Mortarion:
"He faced the Four Gods of Chaos all by himself."
Mortarion fell silent for a brief second.
Then, he nodded.
"Yes. That is part of another branch of the plan."
"That falls under Lorgar's domain; I am not particularly privy to its details."
Mortarion raised his rebreather-covered head and asked calmly, "Do you have any further demands, Perturabo?"
Perturabo did not answer right away. He stood there, dark red eyes gazing at his brother's form.
Reluctant.
That was the undeniable truth.
Yet as stubborn and conflicted as Perturabo was, even he recognized that there was no other way out at this point.
Chaos was backed into a corner, and that deity was steadily tipping the scales of victory toward the Imperium day by day.
And as for his desire to find Dorn—no, that wish could only be discussed after that walking god of the physical realm was dealt with.
As a Primarch, he possessed at least that much foresight.
Perturabo slowly raised his right hand.
The black sigils etched into his palm glowed with hidden heat—the signature power of the realm of Chaos.
All Demon Primarchs had turned their backs on humanity, on the Emperor, on the promises of the Great Crusade, and on everything else.
And this was his power—the power acquired by refusing to drown in their Father's lies.
If that god was coming... then let him come.
Perturabo clenched his fist tightly, making his final resolve.
He spoke, his voice cold, uncompromising, and heavy with authority.
"I agree."
"—Let the galaxy burn once more."
The Response of the Imperium of Man (4K)
At that very same moment.
Deep within the Webway.
Jubal Khan scratched the back of his head.
When his power gauntlet scraped against his nape, it emitted a rather undignified metallic grinding sound. Several White Scars warriors nearby heard the noise and instinctively grinned in unison.
Jubal Khan noticed their expressions and burst out into a hearty, unbothered laugh.
"I was merely speaking casually, don't take it too to heart."
His voice carried that open, unrestrained heartiness characteristic of the Chogorians. "I am simply raising a minor point. If we continue searching like this, when on earth will it ever end?"
At this moment, the squad was standing within an ancient, fractured chamber of the Webway.
The wraithbone floor beneath their feet was covered in cracks that had remained untouched for ten thousand years, from deep within some of which a faint, bluish glow slowly seeped.
The dome of the nexus was so high it was practically lost from view, and the walls on either side were carved with long-lost Aeldari insignia, their meandering lines glowing faintly in the dark.
Yet the White Scars had no mood to appreciate such sights.
Ever since the conclusion of that breathtaking clash between the two divine scions, the traitor Primarch Lorgar had tucked tail and fled.
A glorious battle like that had truly set the blood of every Astartes ablaze.
To fight shoulder-to-shoulder with a Primarch and traverse the paths of the Webway was an honor guaranteed to make one's pulse race.
Yet glory was glory, and the harsh reality lay squarely before them: good things rarely lasted forever.
And following the shameful retreat of the daemon Primarch, that newly emerged mysterious big figure had spirited Lion El'Jonson away using methods completely beyond their comprehension, leaving the White Scars staring at one another in blank astonishment.
And so, they continued their march.
Several days had passed as they pressed on with their search through this boundless Webway for the whereabouts of their Gene-Father, yet what was the result?
As expected, not even a shadow was to be found.
"Mind your words, my brother."
At the front of the column, Qin Xa spoke without looking back.
Unlike Jubal Khan, this far more senior Astartes veteran spoke with a composed, disciplined restraint.
"To find our Gene-Father is our sacred mission."
Jubal Khan shrugged, his shoulder armor emitting a crisp, soft click in response.
He did not feel that his remarks carried any offense.
In fact, none of the White Scars present felt that way.
The military discipline of Chogoris was never as rigid as that of the Ultramarines, nor as tightly wound on every nerve as that of the Imperial Fists.
Their style resembled more the wild gales of their homeworld—free, untamed, and unconstrained.
"Ha, I was simply putting it out there. I merely feel somewhat—"
He paused, tilting his head as he searched for the right word.
"Somewhat doubtful."
The other White Scars let out a few low chuckles.
No one deemed it improper. This was simply how they related to one another—even their Primarch from ten thousand years ago, the Khan himself, had never forbidden his sons from exercising such casual camaraderie.
"Enough of that. Keep moving."
Qin Xa concisely brought the topic to a close. He raised his right hand, preparing to signal the advance, when his stride abruptly halted.
The neural interfaces inside his power armor captured a specific signal—a transmission that had pierced through the wondrous web of technology directly.
Qin Xa's expression shifted.
"We have received a communication."
"What communication?"
Jubal Khan's casual demeanor vanished into thin air in an instant.
Every White Scars warrior shed their jocular expressions almost simultaneously, those relaxed postures transforming into taut vigilance in less than a second.
Qin Xa did not hesitate.
He raised his left arm, projecting the message directly onto the tactical visors of every warrior present.
[The following is an order from the Regent of Terra:]
[In the name of the God-Emperor, let all Imperial warriors within the Webway take heed.]
[We possess reliable intelligence indicating that enemies originating from Chaos are plotting a profound and sinister conspiracy deep within the Webway.]
[All personnel and all military forces operating within the Webway are ordered to immediately begin tracking down the Blackstone relic structures being sought by the Chaos forces, and you are to destroy them by any means necessary.]
[Should you discover specialized or high-value enemies among them, you are authorized to immediately consider calling for reinforcements without hesitation.]
All the White Scars fell silent for a fleeting moment, before simultaneously erupting into a raw, exultant roar.
"Wait, that must mean—"
Jubal Khan was overjoyed. "So that's it! Just as we suspected earlier!"
The other White Scars nodded in succession, their voices echoing through the Webway in a noisy yet intensely energized chorus.
As the vanguard forces who had previously witnessed the movements of Chaos, the White Scars had been champing at the bit.
Where their Gene-Father was lost remained unknown to them, but since there was a clear enemy to crush, they no longer needed to wander in doubt.
They were the Sons of the Storm; war was in their very nature.
At that moment, every single White Scars warrior was itching to leap onto their jetbikes, charge deep into the Webway, and grind those filthy Blackstone relics into absolute dust.
"Move out, warriors of the Imperium!"
Qin Xa hoisted his power dao high, shouting at the top of his lungs.
The impact of this decree extended far beyond the White Scars.
Deep within an abandoned Aeldari temple inside the Webway, Inquisitor Cibia slowly lowered her force sword.
"Another conspiracy hatched by Chaos..."
Weariness lingered upon her features, yet upon reading the directive, her spirits lifted instantly.
Toiling ceaselessly under Lord Adam's orders across the Webway had indeed taken a toll on Cibia.
Yet without a doubt, ever since she picked up that blood-stained Inquisitorial rosette, Cibia had never once felt—in all her years of service—that this might finally be the ultimate conclusion.
Chaos had run out of tricks.
Cibia raised her head, gazing back at the Tempestus Scions standing behind her.
"For the Emperor."
Cibia spoke softly, her voice reverberating through the silent temple.
She took a step forward as psychic arcs began crackling wildly around her form with unstoppable momentum.
Elsewhere, a performance by the Harlequin Troupe had just drawn to a close.
Shadowseer Sylandri stepped before a shimmering wraithbone wall.
The Harlequins behind her had just concluded a newly composed dance, the breathing behind their wraithbone masks still carrying the rhythmic cadence of the performance.
Truth be told, life under Adam's patronage had treated the Harlequins exceedingly well.
Empowered by reality-warping capabilities, they could manifest openly in the material universe without having to cast a wary eye toward those thirsty maidens who constantly coveted the Harlequins.
Even the Solitaire, dedicated to enacting Slaanesh, no longer needed to fear having their soul claimed by the Six Circles upon death.
Everything, every single thing, was changing for the better.
A sense of ease this effortless was something they had never experienced before.
Then, Shadowseer Sylandri raised her hand and received the signal.
"I see," she murmured thoughtfully.
"Our hope has issued its directives unto us once more. The truth stands revealed."
She turned, the hem of her theatrical costume tracing an elegant arc through the air.
The Harlequins fell into silent, orderly formation, following her deeper into the labyrinthine paths of the Webway.
Scenes akin to this were playing out simultaneously in countless corners of the Webway.
The moment they detected the potential conspiracies of Chaos, propelled by the decisions of the Primarchs, the gargantuan apparatus of the Imperium of Man finally stirred in earnest, issuing its commands.
Every single department swung into action.
A total mobilization of this scale was utterly unprecedented in history.
Inquisitorial vessels traversed the Webway, the Imperial Aquila emblazoned upon their hulls reflecting a brilliant golden radiance.
Astartes Legions marched over ancient wraithbone avenues, each Chapter bearing the distinct imprint and pride of its own Gene-Father.
The hymns of the Adepta Sororitas reverberated through the gloomy tunnels as the battle-sisters clad in black power armor hoisted their bolters high, chanting songs of devotion dedicated to the God-Emperor.
The Custodes formed up in silent ranks, their golden armor shining like torches in the dark.
Tech-Priest Magi drove forth colossal war-engines; every heavy step of those iron behemoths made the ground of the Webway tremble.
Nor was that all.
The Harlequins of the Aeldari, the Ynneci cults, the Craftworld Aeldari, alongside certain Necrons who had successfully regained their physical forms and been successfully brought into the fold by Adam, likewise poured into this great torrent.
Receiving their instructions, they mobilized into action, fighting side-by-side with humanity.
From an unknown point onward, alongside the miracles Adam wrought one after another across this universe, the strength of the material universe no longer belonged to him alone.
The Imperium of Man had secured virtually the entirety of the advantage.
Chaos, by contrast, found itself subjected to unprecedented isolation.
Even with the Four Gods of Chaos racking their brains to orchestrate schemes, facing absolute numerical superiority and overwhelming advantage, every conspiracy appeared like a flickering candle struggling against a gale.
Where the advantage lay in this conflict was entirely self-evident.