Ten minutes ago.
The silhouette of the temple loomed vaguely within the perpetual fog of Davin, resembling an ancient, dormant behemoth.
Those twisted spires pierced into the leaden gray sky in a manner that completely defied the principles of geometry. Even standing on the outer perimeter of the temple, that eerie atmosphere still pressed down like a physical substance.
It existed quietly here, waiting for the arrival of the next footstep.
Perturabo frowned deeply.
He carefully scrutinized the pitch-black depths of the cavern before him. Even with the gaze of a Daemon Primarch—one capable of piercing the very essence of the Warp—he could not penetrate that thick darkness.
Such a sensation was intensely uncomfortable, even for a Daemon Primarch.
"Yes, that's right."
Mortarion stood beside him, his ragged-cloak-shrouded figure shifting slightly. His voice came from behind his respirator, muffled and hoarse.
"This is the place of your coronation. This planet is called Davin. It was here that Horus accepted his destiny. It was here that he witnessed the lies of our father shown to him by the Gods of Chaos, and accepted the great mission to end that hypocritical Empire."
As Mortarion spoke, he emitted a low chuckle tinged with a certain ironic undertone.
The laughter emerged through the filter canisters of his respirator, distorted beyond recognition.
Let alone Perturabo, even Mortarion himself did not know what manner of implication was contained within that laughter.
Perturabo glanced at him coldly.
There was no warmth whatsoever in the Lord of Iron's gaze, and he clearly sneered at such a display of weakness.
Since the decision had been made, there was no room for hesitation, looking backward, or second-guessing.
This was the epitome of weakness.
Where on earth had the once-steadfast Mortarion gone?
At this very moment, Perturabo had already agreed to the conditions proposed by the Chaos Gods.
He would become the next Warmaster of Chaos, backed by the Four Gods of Chaos, to wage a desperate battle against an entity he had never even met—one rumored to be the new hope of the Imperium of Man.
Both Daemon Primarchs knew very well in their hearts.
Unlike the Horus Heresy era, when they could still invent a few self-deceiving lies to numb themselves, now they didn't even have lies left.
The only thing remaining was the realization that they had committed irretrievable sins.
Those primarchs, those brothers, those loyalists, would launch a vengeance against them under the leadership of that god.
They would drag them out of the depths of the Warp one by one; there would be a trial to humiliate them, and then they would be executed one by one.
At the mere thought of such a scenario, the self-important Daemon Primarch found it utterly unacceptable.
Especially Perturabo.
He swore an oath.
"I will surely defeat that damned god and fulfill my own great undertaking."
"The price is already clear."
Perturabo took a deep breath.
Mortarion, standing beside him, nodded, a trace of urgency tinging his tone: "You must hurry now. The Grandfather conveyed a sign to me—that god is currently locked in battle with another alien god not accounted for in our plans. This is an extremely rare opportunity. You need to go inside right now and complete the ritual."
He paused, a flicker of an elusive light gleaming from behind the murky lenses of his respirator.
"Believe it or not. Right now, the Chaos Gods will only pour their power into your physical body, not your will. I know I cannot persuade you, and you will not trust the reliability of the Ruinous Powers. But I must still tell you: infusing consciousness into your body is disadvantageous to the Great Powers. The Changeling is very likely to exploit this."
"I know."
Perturabo said coldly and confidently, "I don't need your reminder."
"Even if the Chaos Gods go back on their word and attempt to influence me with their will, let's see who has the last laugh. I will use every means to disrupt your resistance and defeat your plans. I believe that as long as the Chaos Gods still possess a shred of clarity, they would not do such a thing."
"If you understand, then good."
Mortarion slowly turned sideways, clearing the path leading to the depths of the temple.
"Although there is no real relation between us..." His voice suddenly paused, and a low sound of breathing emanated from beneath his respirator. "Yet, I still wish to say one thing now. Good luck, brother. And I wish you victory."
"Naturally."
Perturabo said calmly, then stepped forward into the darkness.
Endless pitch-blackness swallowed the Lord of Iron.
That darkness was as thick as some living creature, surging from all directions the very instant Perturabo stepped into the interior of the temple, enveloping him in an ancient aura.
Even with a Daemon Primarch's visual acuity, he could not make out what truly existed within this altar-temple.
There were no wicked entities as he had anticipated, nor anything he could have imagined.
Only darkness.
And visions.
"————Iron decays, stone endures."
Perturabo opened his eyes.
He found himself lying on the ground.
Blood and fire spread everywhere around him, the scorching stench of burning filling his nasal passages.
Corpses lay scattered haphazardly beside him—the armor of those corpses was painted in colors all too familiar to Perturabo: the yellow and black stripes of the Iron Warriors.
His sons.
Their deaths were unimaginably wretched, severed limbs scattered everywhere, rivers of blood flowing.
And yet, there was not a single enemy corpse in the vicinity, as if this had merely been a unilateral slaughter.
Then, he heard that voice.
"Iron decays, stone endures."
Standing before him was a colossal figure.
That suit of golden power armor still gleamed brilliantly amidst the smoke and dust of war; his expression was as hard and rigid as granite, completely devoid of emotion.
Rogal Dorn.
He looked down upon Perturabo lying on the ground, his gaze devoid of a single trace of emotional fluctuation.
That look was cold, carrying only a condescending, detached scrutiny of a defeated foe.
"I have told you countless times, Perturabo."
Dorn spoke slowly.
"You are merely weak scrap iron. You have never understood what perseverance means, what honor means. You always put on an appearance of steadfast will, yet you are more twisted than anyone. Now, the grievances between us can finally be brought to a close."
He paused slightly.
"How tedious————perhaps tomorrow I will have forgotten you."
Perturabo laughed uproariously.
That laughter shook the earth and heavens, carrying a kind of hysterical bravado.
That rigid, stone-like Rogal Dorn was actually capable of uttering such words?
"What a joke!"
Perturabo roared, his voice filled with violent fury and sarcasm.
"Chaos Gods, even your mockery of mortals should have its limits! However..." He clenched his teeth, the fire of wrath igniting within his eyes almost materializing into physical flames.
"If your goal is merely to anger me, you have succeeded all too well!"
At this moment, the scene shifted.
Perturabo raised his head and found himself kneeling on the ground.
His hands were firmly bound by iron chains—the material of those chains was entirely unrecognizable to him, but they securely locked his wrists with a firmness that even a gene-primarch could not break free from.
Standing beside him were his loyalist brothers.
Guilliman wore a solemn expression, the Lord of Ultramar's gaze filled with disappointment; the Lion stood in the shadows, his expression still arrogant, the corners of his mouth turned down slightly in undisguised disgust;
Luss grinned, his wolf-like eyes full of contempt, as if looking at a stray dog with a broken spine;
On Vulkan's obsidian-like visage, however, a look of profound pity emerged—a gaze that made Perturabo even more furious;
Rogal Dorn stood at the very front, his face still as stoic as stone, but his eyes held a cold disdain, like looking at a failure whose outcome was long since known.
And several other gene-primarchs stood within Perturabo's blind spots.
He could not see their faces, but he could sense that trial-like atmosphere: Sanguinius, Jaghatai Khan, Corax, Ferrus————their gazes pricked like thorns in his back, silently witnessing his trial.
And before him sat the one enthroned upon the myriad splendors of the Golden Throne.
His father.
The Emperor.
Perturabo widened his eyes.
Even with a gene-primarch's physical constitution, his eyes felt as though they were about to be scorched to ash by those myriad rays of brilliance.
Golden light, boundless golden light, poured down from the throne, heavily oppressing everything within this space.
The Emperor cast his gaze calmly, looking upon him as if he were a stranger and a sinner.
Then, he spoke.
"You have disappointed me, Perturabo."
A massive wave of fury and tempestuous rage instantly enveloped Perturabo's heart.
No!
Perturabo's entire body trembled.
At this very instant, he recalled the various events of the Great Crusade era.
Under the Emperor's command, in those glorious days of old, that self-important version of himself who seemed indifferent to all honor... Perturabo opened his mouth.
He wanted to roar out in anger, to defend himself, but he could not open his mouth.
He could say nothing at all.
At this moment.
The illusion shifted once more.
That was a person Perturabo did not recognize at all.
Yet the very instant he laid eyes upon him, the Lord of Iron realized the other's identity.
That person wore a traveler's attire, an inconspicuous dark coat whose hem fluttered slightly in the turbulent currents of the Warp.
His face was thoroughly unremarkable; his body, physique, and overall aura resembled those of an ordinary mortal.
Yet, this "mortal" strolled through the Warp as if walking along a path in his own backyard.
In his hand, he carried a cage.
That cage was woven from vine and bamboo, as simple and rustic as a fish-trap casually crafted by some rural old farmer.
His face was wreathed in smiles, the expression akin to an industrious farmer tallying up his day's harvest in the setting sun—leisurely, composed, carrying a slow-paced sense of fulfillment.
He bent down.
A blood-drenched red hound had its scruff grabbed and was shoved into the bamboo cage.
A brightly feathered blue bird was gathered into a palm and shoved into the bamboo cage.
A green toad covered in pustules was grabbed by the skin of its back and tossed into the cage.
A constantly writhing purple little snake attempted to flee, but with a gentle scoop of the bamboo cage, the purple snake tumbled inside, squeezing together with the other three.
The Warp was in turmoil.
The entire Warp roared and trembled, exerting every ounce of strength in a desperate counter-attack, attempting to tear this cage apart.
Yet, the Warp was helpless.
At this moment, that "mortal" seemed to have been elevated to the apex of all things, representing the myriad of the myriad.
Then, he raised his head.
Those unremarkable eyes pierced through all the illusions and looked straight at Perturabo, who was watching from the sidelines.
Adam wore a composed expression and waved his hand.
"Are you satisfied with this result?"
Perturabo widened his eyes.
At that instant, the boiling fury raging within his chest was suppressed by something even more primordial.
It was a sensation he had never experienced since birth—an instinctive shudder in the face of an apex predator.
Yet the next moment, that immense wrath ignited anew, burning more fiercely than ever before.
How dare you?
How could I ever submit to such a threat?
I am Perturabo!
Steadfast within and without!
As if sensing the hatred and fury rising from the depths of his soul, all the illusions finally faded away.
Those scenes that seemed to unfold in the future receded like a receding tide, scattering into countless fragments and ultimately vanishing into the depths of darkness.
And then...
Light.
Four rays of light, resembling the most dazzling divine radiance, manifested before Perturabo's eyes.
Red, blue, green, purple.
Boundless divine might surged upward, resembling four colored torrents traversing the entire Warp, rushing headlong into the depths of his soul.
Perturabo's eyes widened to their absolute limit.
The Chaos Gods whispered in his ears.
"I am Khorne, Lord of Skulls, master of combat, courage, and bloodshed. I grant you power to help you conquer that existence."
"I am Tzeentch, Lord of Change, master of intellect, mutation, and destiny. I grant you wisdom to help you conquer that existence."
"I am Nurgle, God of Life, master of life, decay, and death. I grant you vitality to help you conquer that existence."
"I am Slaanesh, Lord of Pleasure, master of love, joy, and desire. I grant you emotion to help you conquer that existence."
Power.
Accompanied by whisper after whisper, Perturabo could feel an endless stream of divine might pouring into his body, his soul, and his very essence.
His power swelled, surging time and time again as if without end.
No—not as if.
This was truly without end.
The Chaos Gods unhesitatingly poured their power into this chosen vessel, their forces converging deep within Perturabo's soul to elevate him to a height he could not even fully comprehend.
Fear, anger, reluctance, hatred—all emotions were swallowed by this divine might, transforming into pure, ultimate ecstasy.
At this moment, Perturabo felt omnipotent.
Facing such terrifying divine might, what manner of existence could possibly resist? What manner of existence could still hold out?
With the power of one man, to strike down the entire universe!
Outside the temple, Mortarion also sensed the emergence of that power.
That boundless divine might, resembling the embodiment of death itself, spewed forth from the depths of the temple, enshrouding the entire planet of Davin in an inexpressible oppressive aura.
Mortarion's knees buckled.
This Daemon Primarch, this Lord of Death who had once caused the entire galaxy to tremble, could not help but drop to his knees on the ground.
This was the Warmaster of Chaos.
After ten millennia of silence, a true Warmaster of Chaos had once again manifested within both the Warp and realspace.
Naturally, such fluctuations in the Warp could not escape the notice of certain entities.
On the other side of the Warp, Adam was directing his cluster of avatars; they were clamoring loudly, keeping Gork and Mork suppressed in a beating.
Then, all the Adams simultaneously halted their actions, turning their heads in unison to gaze toward a distant coordinate deep within the Warp.
That fluctuation was continuously expanding outward from that specific region.
"Oh?"
Adam raised an eyebrow.
This fluctuation—it seems those old friends have finally couldn't help themselves.
Are they truly planning to flip the table?
Very well, then let them come.
A smile surfaced on Adam's face.
That smile was filled with pure excitement, the joy of finally seeing a good show about to begin.
To be honest, Adam had grown weary of this boring inter-war period, tired of those convoluted and tedious riddles.
"Taking advantage of my war with Gork and Mork to seize this timing and launch their plan?"
Adam smiled, his aura surging abruptly upward.
"No matter, I'll take on both of them at once!"