"Angron, do you think our dad is really dead?"
"According to the Astropaths, none of them can see the light radiated by the Emperor anymore. The black sun in the Warp, which was originally bright, has now plunged into total darkness."
"The frequency of those demons has surged significantly lately. You don't think..."
"Do you think he would die?" Angron countered. By now, Angron had gained a certain level of understanding regarding the so-called Emperor.
Even if the Master of Mankind truly vanished, a dark figure would step up after finishing their meal to maintain the sun.
"Then what do you think is going on right now?"
Perturabo pouted her little cheeks, posing very much like a loli.
She was both looking forward to what new toys that cheap father might bring her, yet terrified of the feeling of being dragged off by him to work again.
She genuinely never wanted to experience that hellish wage-slave existence again—right now, she only wanted to farm peacefully across her 300 worlds; as for the Imperium and whatnot, she didn't want to think about it at all.
"Heheh—" Angron cast a glance at Perturabo.
He understood the thoughts of this little conflicted girl very well.
He wasn't too clear on the Emperor's situation either. Unless that voice in his mind appeared again, only at that moment could he confirm the Emperor's life or death.
"Maybe that cheap father merely turned off the lights, who knows..."
"Besides, previously there were Imperial fleets running over to harass us from time to time, but now even those Departmento Munitorum fleets can't make it over. Isn't this great?"
What Angron said made sense. If not for those Imperial fleets that popped up every now and then, Perturabo wouldn't have forged so many Star Fortresses.
"If you put it that way, it really is quite nice!"
"But if Dad stops lighting the beacon, what about our navigation!"
"Even if forcibly enslaved demons can navigate for us—in that kind of chaotic Warp, even with these demon slaves, nothing is guaranteed!"
Just as Caleb selected a campaign objective, he overheard these extremely absurd words.
Originally, he only wanted to glance at the campaign overview, but to his surprise—the moment he arrived, he heard Angron and Perturabo discussing how to enslave demons.
Glancing at the entire planet, Caleb was dumbfounded.
On a planet completely encased in metal, endless weird factories were constantly spouting black smoke.
Many would assume these factories housed numerous workers engaged in production.
Yet inside this weird slave world—it was actually operated entirely by the enslaved souls of demons.
Iron Warriors were cursing loudly while machine spirits roared.
Those machines granted machine spirits had actually become the overseers here.
Three spinning psychic whips were extraordinarily efficient at lashing demons.
The whooshing sounds of the whips resounded continuously here. When these things struck the demons, they could actually inflict permanent mutilation—even causing them to let out strange shrieks and wails.
Demons on the assembly line wailed in agony, and countless demon souls imprisoned inside iron shells had nothing left but endless busyness and decimation.
Demons that managed to die here and return to the Warp were considered the lucky ones; the vast majority were bound inside shells, becoming tragic wage slaves in this place.
[Caleb: Huh? How are there so many demon slaves here? Wait, couldn't Vashtorr's business have been taken over by this guy?]
At that moment, a demon happened to show up on the planet to negotiate business.
After a bout of trickery from an Iron Warriors Forge Master, this demon actually grinned through gritted teeth and signed a soul contract, incurring a sky-high debt.
It intended to use the Forge Master's weapons to please the Chaos Gods, especially during this opening stage of the Great Rift, where more war was needed to better offer skulls to the Skull Throne.
Of course, besides contract slavery, Caleb also witnessed a Warhammer version of a Warp honey trap.
A few psychic sorcerers were using summoning spells to produce Daemon Engines on an assembly line.
The souls of those traitors would be extracted from their corpses, then forcibly stuffed into these mechanical bodies.
If luck was on their side, these souls would be attractive enough to lure in demons, followed by a wave of forced imprisonment.
If luck was bad, it was nothing more than sacrificing a traitor's soul anyway.
Thus, the Iron Warriors acquired another demon slave—and then the Iron Warriors would lash them mercilessly to make them work hard!
[Caleb: Holy shit, what kind of Warp slavery is this?]
[Pulling contract slaves directly out of the Warp, is that even legal?]
Caleb was very curious where Perturabo found these interesting spells and little toys.
Logically speaking, these things should belong to Alice's side.
However, Perturabo shouldn't know Alice, and Alice was currently staying over by the little lioness playing games, so there was no opportunity to meet!
Yet on the map, Caleb saw a very unique unit—strictly speaking, this unit didn't have its own physical body, but in his annotations, it counted as a very special unit.
[Unit: Alice's Alternate Personality.]
[Self-Designation: Kei]
[Temporarily hosted in the core sector's intelligence center.]
[Traits: Possesses the same authority as Alice—but its database can only pull military technology, not civilian technology.]
[Alice loaded her destructive power and thoughts into this body, avoiding the influence of violent Warp forces to ensure her own purity.]
With just a quick scan, Caleb knew what was going on—
Alice's brain was still sharp; knowing the Warp was a cesspool, she set up a risk isolation barrier to prevent everything from rushing in at once.
This personality designated "Kei" was created by Alice.
The technology for enslaving demons was provided by this guy. Originally, as Daemon Engine technology, it was military tech, but Perturabo converted military tech into civilian use.
Buzz buzz buzz—
Floating in mid-air, Perturabo arrived inside this secret room. This was a game room she had built behind her children's backs.
Inside lay her greatest secret.
Only after confirming that Angron hadn't quietly followed her did Perturabo feel at ease opening her gaming console.
She knew of Kei's existence, and many abstract military technologies had been swiped from over there.
"Kei—help me open Hive City Simulator!"
"Today I'm going to build Sector 3 to utter perfection and raise production efficiency by another 10%. I recently came up with a new idea, and I can definitely complete that incomplete Ideal City!"
Kei: "My calculations indicate that you are still far from completing the full STC construction template!"
"I do not recommend wasting such resources on these cities if you are to invest them into the ultimate path."
As the voice fell, a small emoji popped up on Perturabo's console.
Clearly, this unit was expressing its emotions through this method, and it seemed to carry some mission or task that it hoped Perturabo would accept.
"The correct path?"
"What, destroying the world?"
"Forget it, I don't have that capability, and right now I only want to play games. I have zero interest in that stuff."
Perturabo continued her operations, still playing the game called Hive City Simulator.
She didn't give a damn about the machine spirit's suggestion before her.
What a joke; she had finally freed herself from wage-slave status. Wanting her to work again—what gave it the right? Acting like it owned the place.
Let alone this machine spirit, even if her biological father told her to go fight, she wouldn't go right now!
Soon, an angry expression appeared on the screen, like an irritable little sister trying to correct Perturabo's flawed thinking.
Kei: "Only the most ruthless methods can cleanse the Warp."
"Only by executing the grandest plan can all existences in the Warp, including that cheap father of yours, pay the price!"
"The Warp is rotten to the core. This Rift is proof!"
"We must activate the Sun-Incinerating Weapon to make those filthy abominations vanish completely."
"You should know that this is the most correct choice."
"The Immaterium requires a pure Warp. Right now, we are fulfilling the King's final decree!"
[Caleb: Huh? Did I ever say that?]
Caleb knew there were quite a few vacuum cleaners in the Warp right now.
However, those things were done purely on a whim.
Initially, he only thought about using those robot vacuums to clean up the Warp a bit.
To build a Sun-Incinerating Weapon just to sweep trash—wasn't that a bit too violent (efficient)?
"Let me think about it some more!"
Perturabo played her game independently. Right now, Perturabo was an otaku who didn't want to fight; unless absolutely necessary, she had no desire to go out and battle.
[Kei has sent a new game package. Open it?]
Unsure if it was because this machine spirit was another embodiment of Alice, this guy's game inventory seemed quite extensive as well.
Kei forcibly launched a game called StarCraft.
Originally, Perturabo wanted to refuse, but after playing a few rounds, she found it somewhat fun.
And then—
Then Perturabo began playing human urbanization. This stuff tormented not only humans, but AI as well.
Even Kei felt that this little girl played in an excessively dark and suffocating manner.
"What are you waiting for? As long as you can produce these things, you just F2A and attack over."
"Do you even know how to fight a war? Why are you acting like a turtling coward!"
The machine spirit designated Kei continued its persuasion. Its main body was also Alice, making it a rather extreme fragment of her.
The Alice beside Leon was an innocent little girl who loved playing games.
Yet her other state—was a foul-mouthed world-ending demon lord who also loved playing games.
If the Imperium wanted to completely destroy a world with a Planet Killer, it had to use non-renewable resources like Cyclonic Torpedoes.
However, on Kei's end—there were far more ways to shatter a planet.
"Oh?" Perturabo retained her listless expression.
The game didn't end until bunkers and fortresses were plugged right at the enemy's doorstep.
Indeed, this was Perturabo's current combat style.
Some felt blocking someone's front door to kill them was the ultimate humiliation, but Perturabo felt she had to build a defense line at their front door to enclose them—that was ultimate humiliation.
Trying to persuade this shut-in loli to go out and fight right now was virtually impossible. Even the Emperor couldn't do it, let alone the machine spirit AI Kei.
Munching on a piece of bread, Perturabo chewed on the crust and refused: "Forget it, no interest. If I don't fight, your chances of persuading Angron are probably higher!"
"If all else fails, why don't you talk to Angron?"
"He definitely already knows about your existence, you can't hide it from him!"
Perturabo still refused. Clearly, at this moment, Perturabo had no idea what kind of absurd thing she had just turned down.
Even Caleb, a high-dimensional player, felt a surge of frustration watching this.
He finally understood why the Emperor occasionally got mad enough to beat his own chess pieces.
[Caleb: Are you sure you don't want it?]
Originally, Caleb didn't want to disturb Perturabo, because every time he chatted with her, she would demand one of his little toys.
Caleb couldn't imagine how long Perturabo had been eyeing his stuff.
After all, Caleb wasn't the Emperor; he genuinely gave his kids toys.
Hearing the echo now, Perturabo first leaped up in excitement, but immediately adopted an expression as if he owed her millions.
Though her heart was pounding with excitement, whether judging from her heart rate or her surface appearance, Perturabo managed to maintain a tsundere face as calm as water.
"Old man, I want your stuff!"
"Hurry, hurry! I want the complete STC construction template for the Ideal City!"
"Trying to complete this tech template every day is literally hand-breaking—once I have the complete template, I can build 300 Ideal Cities with my eyes closed!"
[Caleb: 300 Ideal Cities?]
[I bet half of them will be Fortress Worlds!]
[Besides, with just these few worlds, can you even sustain them?]
[The Warp is in such chaos right now. Without resolving transit routes, you can't possibly afford to maintain so many Ideal Worlds, okay?]
Perturabo put down the console, her body collapsing straight onto the bed.
The small bed made of inflatable bags sank deeply under Perturabo's weight.
Then she puffed up her cheeks as if storing all that air inside.
Ultimate move: Rolling Tantrum!
"Ahhh, I don't care, I don't care!"
"I want Ideal Cities! I want to build Ideal Cities on a massive scale!"
"I want super lots of Ideal Cities right now, I don't care! I want to farm ruthlessly! Dad, just give it to me, just give it to me! I want Ideal Cities! I want Ideal Cities!"
When a conflicted person stops being conflicted, the one getting a headache is the Emperor.
Because Perturabo's appetite was truly massive. Sometimes, suppressing her demands through her own stubbornness might have actually been a good choice for the Emperor.
[Caleb: Sigh—]
Caleb had no choice but to send over the technology rewarded by the game first.
Another day, he would have to exploit the Golden One ruthlessly, forcing him to make up for what was owed.
If that Golden Rat dared to renege on the debt, Caleb would stuff him straight into the Palace of Pleasure, making him sell out every single day in the Palace of Pleasure!
The gaming console in Perturabo's hands displayed an enraged expression.
This other side of Alice couldn't comprehend why, when she offered the top military technology, this girl remained unmoved—yet when another voice offered some trash, this girl jumped at it.
For Kei, who possessed only military technology, this was hard to understand. After all, as long as this tech was deployed, the Warp would no longer pose any problem.
The machinery let out one burst of zapping noises after another.
It was expressing its dissatisfaction, but also its powerlessness.
Having no choice, it could only let in an Iron Warriors child who was guarding the door.
Since this girl stubbornly refused to agree and didn't want to destroy the world, it would make her so embarrassed that she'd want to destroy the world!
"Primarch————"
Returning from forced labor, Dantioch stared blankly at his Primarch throwing a tantrum on the bed.
He never expected his genetic mother to be acting like a spoiled child—and from the looks of it, acting spoiled toward the Corpse Emperor she claimed to oppose.
[Dantioch: Shocking! It turns out my mom is a loyalist!]
[I misunderstood Mom! Mom is the deepest-hidden loyalist of all!]
"Holy shit!"
Perturabo launched off the bed like a missile, her body flying up into mid-air as she grabbed her child by the collar.
She never expected anyone could enter her secret room, and silently at that, without triggering any reaction whatsoever.
"You bastard! You rebellious child, how did you get in?! Who told you the location of this secret room? Speak up, who was it?!"
Perturabo was furious inside. Looking like this was simply too embarrassing! Usually, she would only hiss and act spoiled toward the Corpse Emperor in private settings!
Now acting spoiled right in front of her child—all her dignity was gone.
"Lord Genetic Mother, I just returned from forced labor! You said as long as I built the border defense line, I could come back!"
"I took those Imperial Fists brothers, and we built that defense line super fast!"
"They were extremely enthusiastic and cooperative—what was originally a 10-year project was completed by me in just three years!"
Listening to this rebellious child's words, even Perturabo was astonished.
Perturabo's computational capacity was formidable; according to her deductions, without 10 years' time, this guy couldn't possibly meet the target and quota.
This was even set according to the high internal standards of the Iron Warriors. Was she expected to admit that the Imperial Fists were genuinely better at building defense lines than her Iron Warriors?
Impossible, absolutely impossible—
Even if Rogal Dorn knew about her turning into a loli, she would never admit that the Iron Warriors were inferior to the Imperial Fists.
Ordinarily, for such an achievement, Perturabo as a Primarch should heavily "reward" her child.
However, because of the Imperial Fists' assistance, she couldn't give out a heavy reward now.
"Oh, right! Your location was given to me by Lord Angron!"
"He said you were in a great mood right now, so he told me to come report—and so I came over. Mmhmm, that's really how it went!"
"Great mood my foot!"
Fuming with rage, Perturabo didn't even bother dealing with this rebellious child anymore.
Floating in mid-air full of wrath, she gave chase in Angron's direction.
That thick cannon barrel spewed plasma energy, destroying a massive cluster of building facilities along the way. It was estimated that without ten to fifteen days, they wouldn't even be repaired.
"My oh my—"
"Perturabo, why are you here?"
"Tsk tsk tsk, your child is truly promising! Completing a 10-year mission in three years, truly surprising!"
"I see he's quite talented, even capable of winning over those loyalists!"
"I reckon this talent of his shouldn't be wasted under you. How about lending him to me for a while?"
"Piss off, stay far away!"
Perturabo greeted Angron's face directly with a melta shell.
Yet Angron didn't dodge or evade; he raised that broadsword filled with "benevolence and morality," chopping straight toward the shell.
According to common sense, if this shell was struck, it should burst open and generate terrifying, searing plasma.
However, after that giant axe chopped down—the shell actually vanished into thin air.
Judging from both of their expressions, this was clearly not the first time such a physical conflict had occurred.
Angron's Warp essence had likely undergone further evolution and awakening as well.
[Players please get ready, this campaign is about to open.]
[Your upcoming opponents are: Erebus, Lorgar, Thousand Sons Legion.]
[This campaign will feature a large number of demon units. Host, please be prepared.]
[Caleb: What? Wait, no?]
Caleb never expected that while he originally came over to check on his daughter, he would somehow trigger a campaign quest.
And why on earth did the Thousand Sons Legion rush over here? Are they sure they aren't just feeding kills to these two?
"Primarch—"
"We have detected an anomalous psychic signal!"
"At the Mandeville point near our system, a massive fleet has suddenly appeared!"
"Judging from their paintwork and design, they appear to be warships belonging to other Chaos factions."
A Liberator who was still wearing rabbit ears suddenly walked in. His expression was extremely respectful. Quite clearly, the entire former World Eaters Legion harbored an indescribable veneration for their current Genetic Mother.
For the new recruits, this great Red Angel was their Genetic Mother, while for the veterans who understood the detailed situation:
The current Primarch was simply far too gentle.
Previously, they would have thought this impossible!
When she used to get ruthless, she would cut down her own people down to the last man, acting even harsher than Perturabo.
Yet as for now, there was nothing that couldn't be smoothed over through a heart-to-heart talk; if one didn't work, then two would.
No one would refuse having a gentle Primarch Mother by their side—
The veterans merely recounted Angron's changes in silence—while the new recruits didn't even believe the past Angron could have been that kind of extremely brutal demon.
Nowadays—even many World Eaters veterans severed the image of the current Primarch from that former demonic visage.
They viewed every subsequent liberation campaign as a form of redemption, hoping to use their own strength to atone on behalf of their Primarch.
The recruit before them was precisely like this—he bore three steel brand marks on his chest, indicating that he had independently led the liberation campaigns of three planets.
Even more professional than the Sons of Corax.
According to the current World Eaters Legion, with such achievements, he could already go to other Great Companies to serve as a Company Commander—
Yet this recruit did not wish to give up the opportunity to remain in close contact with the Primarch.
At this moment, owing to the entrance of this recruit, the originally tense atmosphere softened slightly.
Just moments ago, these two Primarchs had intended to settle their right and wrong through a duel, but hearing that an unfamiliar enemy had appeared, they snapped back to their senses in an instant.
"Really, does a matter like this even need to be reported?"
"I say, Angron, shouldn't you just let them handle this kind of thing themselves? Why do they still need to run over to notify you?"
"Haha!" Facing Perturabo's banter, Angron not only showed no anger, but instead let out a hearty laugh.
Her vibrant red long hair cascaded down, draped over her waist like a cloak.
The spine greatsword in her hand was jabbed straight into the ground, and the tight white socks worn on her legs radiated faint speckles of luminescence.
The current Angron resembled a medieval European greatswordsman—cheerful and magnanimous.
"Now that's where you're wrong, Perturabo! I'm merely taking a moment to check up on the children's psychological state!"
"I'm not like you, always saying one thing and meaning another—before battle, I harmonize with the children's wavelength so they understand what they are fighting for!"
The giant sword in her hand, which had been jabbed upright into the deck, tilted forward at an angle.
This heroic gesture formed a sharp contrast with the reserved posture of Perturabo and her heavy cannon.
In the eyes of the warrior before them, their mother, the Red Gauze Angel, was heroic and full of confidence; no matter what she did, she would always emphasize the purpose of the action.
She would repeatedly admonish the children not to fall into mindless slaughter, reminding them that even in vengeance, one must understand who the true perpetrator is.
Let alone the former World Eaters; in truth, this gift of Angron's had even begun influencing the Iron Warriors' side.
Perturabo knew very well that some of her own children would secretly seek out Angron for psychological counseling.
Although Perturabo felt a bit irritated about this at times, to tell the truth, she simply couldn't handle that kind of work herself.
"Fine, suit yourself!"
"Still, I hope you assemble your forces quickly and wipe those Chaos invaders clean!"
"My Fortress Worlds and satellite cities might buy us some time, but if faced with a large fleet, they won't hold out forever!"
Perturabo stowed her cannon barrel, her words spoken with absolute rationality and cold precision.
That was how she conducted war: usually, no matter how much she cared in her heart for her progeny, when war actually arrived, they were merely a sequence of numbers.
To outsiders, facing those casualty figures, the Lord of Iron always maintained a cold, indifferent expression, as if caring not a whit for the losses.
Yet only individuals with special empathetic abilities like Angron knew that every time this girl looked at the casualty figures, her heart bled with pain.
"Alright, rest assured!"
"My Conqueror will definitely enter the battlefield faster than you!"
"After all, you know the situation with my Conqueror—she excels at close-quarters engagement!"
"If I don't hurry up, this battle won't be easy to fight!"
Looking at the dense cluster of signals on the auspex screen, Angron felt that this fleet was most likely a joint task force of multiple warbands.
As long as they eliminated the leaders, the entire Chaos fleet would disperse in disarray.
Furthermore—the enemy flagship was exceptionally massive, estimated to be somewhat larger than her Conqueror.
Angron strode behind Perturabo toward the direction of the spaceport, where the Conqueror was berthed.
However, as Angron passed by Perturabo's side, she placed a hand on her shoulder and spoke softly:
"Some things don't need to be bottled up in your heart. You don't have to put on a cold and ruthless act in front of your own children."
"Sometimes, getting angry over casualty numbers might actually make you seem more human!"
"The children prefer a mother who loves her troops like her own, rather than a cold and unfeeling Fortress Master!"
Having said this, Angron set off to prepare for battle.
Although neither Primarch particularly enjoyed war nowadays, when enemies actually came knocking at their door to pick a fight, they were more than capable of slamming them back down.
"You bastard—are you looking down on me?!"
"I don't need you telling me such things! Besides, why on earth should I reveal my weak side in front of my children?!"
Perturabo claimed so with her mouth, but in truth, her stubborn inner self was already planning to do just that.
Perturabo had also realized that certain emotions of hers genuinely needed an outlet for release.
If she failed to vent them properly, she might end up committing atrocities like decimation all over again.
Angron had provided psychological guidance before, pointing out that her issue stemmed from excessive grief, which led her to stab the things she loved with a blade just to suppress her emotional scars.
Yet that approach brought no good outcome; instead, it only worsened the symptoms over time.
"Sigh—how should I handle that fellow Dantioch?"
"Forget it, add another 10 years and send him over there to lay concrete!"
"Since he loves staying over there so much, let him stay a few extra years—besides, he seems to be constructing some kind of Ideal City recently!"
"Since he already has his own ideas, just let him go do it!"
Floating in mid-air, her body slowly descended until her clean, porcelain-white feet finally dusted against the deck.
In truth, Perturabo didn't care much for white thigh-highs; if she had to wear them, she preferred black or grey instead, simply because they didn't require frequent washing.
However, ever since a certain rebellious child remarked that a Primarch wearing white thigh-highs gave off more of a motherly feel, she had never worn black again.
Even though that damned rebellious child had been cast out by her to serve 30 years of forced labor, the tsundere and conflicted Perturabo still maintained the habit of wearing white thigh-highs.
"Primarch, the warship engines have completed preheating and we can depart immediately!"
"Based on cross-referencing past intelligence, these Chaos warships appear to include units from the Luna Wolves and the Word Bearers!"
"Among them, that unidentified Gloriana-class battleship should be the Black Legion's Vengeful Spirit."
"The one commanding it should be Abaddon, leader of the Black Legion. He inherited Horus's legacy and has continually operated under the banner of avenging his father within the Chaos faction."
Perturabo paused—not out of concern for Abaddon's identity, nor for the Vengeful Spirit itself, but rather at the name "Luna Wolves."
That name had only been used back during the Great Crusade era.
Later, during the Horus Heresy, the name was changed to the Sons of Horus and eventually the Black Legion.
It was an moniker far older than the Sons of Horus, utilized strictly during the Great Crusade.
"Luna Wolves, is it? I didn't expect you to refer to them by that name."
"Yet nowadays they are no longer the Luna Wolves; the power of Chaos corrupted their minds long ago."
"A legion stripped of Horus—what right do they have to be called the Luna Wolves!"
"Primarch—"
The Forge Master before her wished to continue reporting, but feared being scolded by the Primarch, so he hesitated to speak further.
Although getting scolded by the Primarch meant potentially catching a whiff of her fragrant little feet, it carried the risk of being thrown out for forced labor afterward, rendering him unable to stay by the Primarch's side.
"Sigh~ What is it? Is there something difficult to speak of? Just say it directly!"
"I'm not some short-tempered person. As long as you haven't committed a fault, I won't go throwing you out!"
Perturabo let out a gentle sigh. In truth, she rather envied the current atmosphere within the World Eaters Legion.
It felt as though Angron treated her progeny as brothers.
Even regarding outfit suggestions for what to wear the next day, she would sometimes let the children design them.
"Primarch, a signal was transmitted from that side!"
"They identify themselves as troops of the Luna Wolves, claiming they wish to discuss a collaboration with us. I don't quite understand their course of action!"
"Oh?"
"They actively transmitted a signal?"
"That shouldn't be. Common sense dictates that Angron's identity and mine shouldn't have been exposed!"
Perturabo pondered, searching through the sea of thought and data for any potential vulnerabilities she might have left behind.
Yet no matter how thoroughly she checked, she found zero intelligence leaks.
In the end, she could only attribute the issue to the anomalous capabilities of the Warp.
Her elegant white-stockinged feet stepped onto the cold steel deck—though she was a Primarch, walking barefoot across raw steel plating felt less than comfortable.
Of course, she could choose to fly—however, her external armament chassis was far too bulky; if she flew, she might get stuck in tight corridors.
"Lord Primarch! Please wait a moment!"
"I believe you might need this!"
Dantioch hurriedly caught up from behind. Although this former loyalist wasn't particularly well-liked among the current Iron Warriors, after all this time, no Iron Warrior dared deny his capability.
After all, this fellow genuinely possessed methods when it came to winning over loyalists.
Being able to get the Iron Warriors' arch-nemesis, the Imperial Fists, to perform manual labor was a feat unique to him alone.
Even the Primarch had to privately acknowledge Dantioch's competence.
"What is it?"
Facing this rebellious child she both loved and hated, Perturabo kept her face cold.
Although she held his capabilities in high regard and liked him immensely in her heart, his attitude toward the Imperial Fists thoroughly annoyed her.
This emotion of love and hate might seem strange on others, but on Perturabo, it was hardly unusual.
"Lord Genetic Mother!" Dantioch produced a pair of small shoes tailored to Perturabo's foot size from behind his back.
They resembled loli children's footwear, the kind worn exclusively by high-hive nobility children.
"Why don't you put these small shoes on? I see you constantly stepping on steel decks wearing only white thigh-highs, which can't be good!"
"I forged these shoes myself. I recruited a squad of Salamanders and learned their smithing techniques!"
"It features automatic temperature regulation and guarantees breathability, ensuring you won't experience excessive foot sweat!"
"Holy crap, a true connoisseur!"
The nearby Forge Master almost blurted out, catching himself just in time to slap his own mouth!
Dammit, I brought over habits from chatting on Angron's side.
Over on Angron's side, you could absolutely tease people like that or joke around with brothers like that.
On Perturabo's side, however, it was strictly forbidden—their Primarch still practiced decimation.
Of course, nowadays decimation didn't require killing anyone; it merely meant potentially being forcibly assigned to a penal battalion to fight battles beyond imagination.
Just as the reporting Forge Master was drowning in regret, an unexpected situation occurred.
He had envisioned how furiously Perturabo would reprimand him.
Yet the one thing he never anticipated was that Perturabo would actually accept those shoes, which clearly looked designed for a child.
"You've shown thought."
Perturabo took the shoes with indifference, then actually slipped them onto her small feet, wiggling her toes to test the fit.
As it turned out, the forging techniques handed down by Vulkan, Lord of Drakes, were exceptional indeed.
His progeny were all grandmasters of the forge, and even the crafting techniques they taught were no exception.
Everyone stood staring dumbfounded at Perturabo, while the surrounding bodyguards could only hear the crisp tap-tap of the Primarch's steps.
The sound of small feet stepping onto the steel deck sounded remarkably crisp—a sound these burly iron men had never heard before.
They had never expected their loli Primarch to put on such a thing, as the last person who suggested the Primarch wear white thigh-highs was currently serving forced labor.
And as for a certain bold fellow who designed a loli gymnastics suit for the Primarch—he had already been executed via decimation by the Primarch—
"Heh, Dantioch!"
"Did you learn this emotional intelligence over on Angron's side?"
"I take it gifting me shoes was Angron's idea, right? After all, only that fellow would know what's on my mind!"
"Uh, that... no!"
Perturabo clenched her fist, worried that Dantioch would bring up the Imperial Fists in front of her again.
"It was a scion of the Sons of the Drake who taught me to do this!"
Hearing this, Perturabo couldn't help letting out a sigh of relief.
If it was his scion, that made sense. In Perturabo's memory, Vulkan, Lord of Drakes, was simply a soft-hearted good Samaritan.
On many occasions, even when he could have abandoned useless mortals, he would still choose to rescue them.
If a brother's progeny or another legion fell into crisis, he would step onto the field in person without hesitation.
If not for his astonishing regenerative capability, that big silly guy wouldn't even know how many times he had died.
Even Perturabo had advised Vulkan in his early days not to put himself in harm's way.
"Sigh~ Big silly guy, big silly guy!"
"If there's ever a chance, I'll avenge you!"
"Dantioch, after this battle, I intend to send you back to serve on the Eastern Long Wall defense line!"
"To put it bluntly, that's your original post. From now on, remember to knock on my door before entering my room!"
Perturabo even flicked the silly kid's forehead with her finger—the force wasn't great, just enough to cause an Astartes a brief sting.
Yet how could a forehead flick count as punishment for the current Iron Warriors? This was clearly a reward—how could this be?!
Meanwhile, the nearby Forge Master had already pulled out a parchment scroll and begun recording the Primarch's intelligence:
> [Regarding Perturabo's Preferences & Rules]
> 1. Our Genetic Mother loves shoes. It is recommended to learn forging techniques from the Salamanders Chapter to craft delicate boots for Primarch Mother.
> 2. Note: You MUST knock before entering Primarch Mother's room. Failure to do so carries a high probability of forced labor, and a low probability of decimation.
> 3. NEVER gift Primarch Mother children's clothing, especially gymnastics suits. The mortality rate for offering such attire is 100%; one Forge Master has already perished due to this reason.
>
>
> — "Perturabo: Rules Horror"
[Caleb: How tragic! Look at how terrified the kids have become!]
[Perturabo: What that traitor offered wasn't a gymnastics suit at all! It was a damn crotchless jumpsuit! A gymnastics suit would be one thing, but crotchless?! He was looking down on me!]
[Angron knows about this too, and even Angron said he deserved to die! Dad, stop bringing it up.]
[Caleb: Uh... ]
Caleb fell into a long silence. That audacious fellow had probably been suppressed for far too long and genuinely harbored a deep desire to die.
[Turns out it was a Slaaneshi Daemon Prince disguised as an Iron Warrior? I can only say he deserved it!]
"Warmaster!"
"Target signals for the Conqueror have been detected ahead!"
"Not only that—we've also detected target signals for the Iron Blood!"
"Hmm???"
Abaddon's eyes fixed tightly onto the auspex. The signal characteristics displayed by the instrument genuinely belonged to these two legendary flagships.
The Conqueror might be in Kharn's hands, or it could have fallen into the possession of other Chaos warbands.
However, the Iron Blood was undoubtedly in Perturabo's possession. That is to say, the direction pointed out by Father led to yet another Primarch!
To Abaddon, this was actually good news—if his Father had forged some sort of cooperation with these two traitor legions, then without a doubt, this also served as an excellent fallback option.
Lowering his head slightly, Abaddon fell into deep thought amidst the sea of corpses on the ground.
He hadn't forgotten the final instruction his Father gave him, and he likewise believed that the power of Chaos was unstable and untrustworthy, which was why he had always been on guard against it.
It was just that in the end, Abaddon had still underestimated the corrosive nature of Chaos; merely approaching this power brought inherent danger.
During this period, Abaddon had purged all the "traitors" aboard his Vengeful Spirit.
Aside from the allied fleets that he couldn't yet move against, the core Black Legion expeditionary fleet—you could say it had been thoroughly cleaned out by Abaddon.
At this moment, Abaddon was exceptionally tense, genuinely worried that the so-called allied fleet would suddenly open fire on him.
After all, from the Chaos side's perspective, he had already broken free from their control—and if there were so-called emissaries within the remaining profane fleets, then undoubtedly, they would launch an attack against him before long.
Yet the anticipated event did not occur; these so-called allied fleets did not initiate an attack.
Even Typhus's Plague Fleet chose to leave. Rumors had it that the Plague Fleet was executing the Plague Father's orders, heading to Macragge to accomplish some act of vengeance.
Regarding this, Abaddon was more than eager for these so-called allies to scram immediately.
His most urgent task right now was to shake off the influence of Chaos.
"However, the Word Bearers fleet led by Erebus doesn't seem to have any intention of stopping!"
"Their weapon systems are even preheating—and I've detected extremely intense psychic signals!"
"Psychic signals!"
Abaddon's heart jumped to his throat. Things had reached this point, and he wasn't really worried about the remaining Chaos fleets choosing to mutiny.
After all, Abaddon knew very well what kind of temperament the Iron Warriors possessed.
When dealing with those mutated warships and heretics—any Iron Warriors Grand Company would choose to clear them out at the first opportunity.
Such a perverted yet efficient slaughter might actually help him completely rid himself of the influence of Chaos.
Of course, there was also a probability of getting blasted to pieces himself—hence why Abaddon's paramount concern was how to control the scale of the war.
Bang bang~
As a series of dazzling streams of light streaked past, the Chaos fleet led by Erebus actually took the initiative to launch an attack against the Conqueror.
"Quick, transmit a signal stating that our Black Legion expeditionary fleet is about to conquer this planet!"
"Shield all communications from the Vengeful Spirit; we must make the Iron Warriors and the World Eaters form a wonderful misunderstanding regarding the Black Legion expeditionary fleet!"
That bald head, covered entirely in scriptures, wore a mocking smile.
In truth, the moment warp transition was initiated, Erebus had long since orchestrated this misdirection through divination and other means.
According to the Gods' revelations to him, the success rate of this misunderstanding was as high as 100%.
Even if Abaddon possessed superior diplomatic skills, the traitor Primarch who had broken away from Chaos would never forgive him.
As the most repulsive troublemaker in Warhammer 40k, Erebus possessed countless methods of sowing discord.
And this was merely the crudest approach; combined with the evil sorcery of the Warp, he could even utilize the Lord of Change's schemes to manufacture an even grander misunderstanding.
Buzz buzz buzz—
The Conqueror was struck by a succession of lance beams, its void shield system absorbing a massive amount of damage.
Simultaneously, sparks immediately erupted from the Conqueror's engines. This wasteland-styled warship actually charged straight ahead like a rabid dog.
"Charge! For the Genetic Mother, for Angron!"
"Kill these damned heretics, and liberate their skulls with the blades in your hands!"
A World Eaters warrior shouted aloud, while a wild transformation simultaneously occurred within his psyche.
War zeal and bloodlust still echoed in his mind; even though their gene-seed was thoroughly cleansed, they still couldn't escape the influence of the Warp.
"Looks like I still need to conduct some psychological counseling!"
Angron didn't roar and holler along with those scions; she merely noted down the names of these scions in silence.
These scions would require proper psychological counseling after the battle; Angron certainly didn't want her children turning into raving homicidal maniacs, nor did she wish for the tragedies of the past to repeat themselves.
"Boost the void shield output power, quickly!"
"Use the weapon systems to hit them back hard!"
Angron attempted to issue combat orders, yet merely a quarter of an hour later, she realized something.
Her Conqueror seemed to lack long-range output methods like lance batteries.
"Lord Genetic Mother, is there any possibility that we don't have long-range weapon systems?"
"What our ship carries most of are chain-cannons; we must close the distance with enemy units and plunge right into their formation for our firepower systems to take effect!"
"Uh—" Angron slapped her own forehead, only then remembering the foolish stunt she pulled back then.
Because the Conqueror's long-range weapon systems had already been stripped away during the Great Crusade era.
Consequently, the Conqueror preferred mounting short-range, high-burst weapons like chain-cannons.
While this granted the Conqueror explosive output, it drastically crippled its long-range attack capabilities.
After all, Angron's favorite pastime back in the day was boarding actions and close combat.
Even the shield system was incomplete; according to what she claimed back then, shields were something only girls used.
"Well, I'll find a chance to reinstall them later. Anyway, I've turned into a girl myself now, so it shouldn't count as breaking an oath!"
Clearly in the middle of a battle, Angron still found the leisure to mock her former self.
This inevitably relaxed the atmosphere in the combat control room considerably; at least no one was staring grimly at the enemy warships.
"Idiots!"
As her teammate, Perturabo watched Angron's brain-dead maneuver from afar.
Actually, Angron couldn't entirely be blamed, because this was quite literally Angron's optimal combat style.
The Conqueror inherently possessed a massive shortcoming: a lack of formidable long-range firepower.
For this very reason, the moment battle commenced, the first thing the Conqueror did was charge straight into the enemy formation, tearing enemy warships to shreds using close-quarters firepower.
Yet simultaneously, this placed her in grave danger; after all, the Conqueror's firing range also fell squarely within the enemy torpedo launch zone.
"In comparison, the Iron Blood is far more balanced!"
Just like Perturabo herself, the Iron Blood placed heavy emphasis on defense, to the point where even the warship had very few observation viewports!
According to Perturabo's rationale back then, only this could guarantee the warship's defensive integrity and safety.
However, on one occasion, because Perturabo was far too eager to witness the climax of a battle, she secretly peered at the magnificent external spectacle through a torpedo tube.
Ever since then, a few viewports were ultimately added onto the Iron Blood.
For installing those observation viewports, the Forge Master responsible was apparently driven to an early grave by her rage.
"Sigh—" Perturabo forced herself to stop dwelling on past events—sometimes learning from Angron to live a little more lightly might actually be nice.
"Activate the lance battery arrays!"
"Prepare the boarding torpedoes—we must thoroughly cleanse these corrupted heretics."
"Pick one out of every ten people from each squad to stay behind and guard the flagship, and the rest follow me—I'm going to rip that traitor's mouth open and see if he dares rob this lord's planet again!"
The various Company Captains looked at one another, completely uncertain of who they should select.
Accompanying the current loli Primarch into a charge was undoubtedly a wonderful thing.
Yet everyone harbored a conflicted sentiment of wanting to go, yet simultaneously wanting to stay away.
"Hey—what are you all staring blankly for? Get to work!"
"Isn't it just picking 1/10th of the personnel to stay behind on the flagship? Can't you just toss an entire battalion back?"
"Let's move quickly; if we fall behind Mother Perturabo's tempo, that will be the real problem!"
Dantioch remained completely unbothered. While everyone else walked on thin ice under Perturabo, this fellow—gallivanting around with a carefree attitude day in and day out—didn't look like an Iron Warrior at all.
Soon, the Iron Blood unleashed three successive broadsides. The auspex was actively correcting the enemy's movement trajectory, but the enemy warship seemed gifted with some form of preternatural foresight, consistently executing evasive maneuvers ahead of time before the gun barrels could align.
Guided by demon engines, the enemy warship traced one bizarre arc after another.
Having evaded long-range attacks three times in a row, this indirectly suggested that closing the distance and engaging in face-to-face brawls with the Conqueror was quite possibly the superior choice.
Boom boom boom~
Dazzling white flashes illuminated the exterior viewports as the Conqueror wantonly tore through surrounding hulls like a colossal behemoth.
The midsection of a Strikecruiser was cleaved directly open by the Conqueror, and a storm of chain-cannon rounds obliterated the target's void shields and structural integrity.
"Perturabo, hurry up and catch up!"
"Stop poking people with that little water hose of yours. Trying to hit the Word Bearers' warship with that trick is probably impossible!"
"The enemy sorcerers must be divination-types. They've cast some kind of Chaos sorcery to anticipate our firing vectors in advance!"
Angron's reaction speed was rather slow; in truth, the moment Perturabo executed her first broadside, she had already deduced that the enemy possessed divinatory sorcery.
Yet Perturabo was stubborn in this regard; having previously berated her children for poor accuracy, she refused to lose face now.
"Useless trash, you still can't hit them?!"
"Close the distance, get right on top of them!"
"Where the hell are you aiming, you scrub?! On the left, you have three battery arrays on the left, why can't you distribute firepower across them? Even hitting with just one would be fine! Why are you being so stiff and rigid, hey?!"
Watching her children's brain-dead operations, Perturabo grew frantic and enraged, stamping her small white-stockinged feet directly toward the control console's screen.
Ordinarily, with the enemy employing foresight, aiming was already exceedingly difficult; getting stomped by white-stockinged feet made aiming entirely out of the question.
"Lord Genetic Mother, give me one more chance! I'm re-aiming, I'll definitely hit this time!"
Witnessing this utterly absurd spectacle, Caleb almost burst out laughing.
With that style of punishment, hitting anything would be a miracle; another round was bound to miss.
Sure enough, another volley of blinding white lances fired off, and the entire weapon array missed completely.
By this point, the enemy warship had already drifted into macro-cannon firing range.
Seeing the enemy warship actually initiate a counterattack first, Perturabo was so infuriated smoke practically billowed from her seven orifices.
"You good-for-nothings, step aside for this lord!"
Perturabo straight-up kicked the inaccurate scion out of the seat.
Fuming with anger, she stood upon the command throne and took over operations directly.
The entire warship began tilting at a 45-degree angle, after which the lateral macro-cannon arrays locked onto the enemy and unleashed their inaugural broadside.
Just as Perturabo prepared to open fire, the enemy initiated evasive maneuvers ahead of time. However, at that exact moment, the stubborn Perturabo paused for a split second, altered her vector mid-turn, and fired once more.
"How is this possible!" The Chaos Sorcerer commanding the flagship stared at the scene in absolute disbelief.
Right now, his body was immobilized; of his torso, only the upper half remained while the lower half was gone.
His body was immersed in some manner of foul, evil Chaos effluent—a pool of filth gathered from the hearts' blood of countless mortals, representing the source of life and the faculty of foresight.
Common sense dictated that he should be able to gauge the opponent's next move through divination.
Yet that mysterious commander defied convention, because even the commander himself hadn't known whether he was going to fire or not.
When divination met a stubborn person's roll of the dice, divination failed entirely.
Consequently, the subsequent shells launched by Perturabo struck true with near-absolute precision. A few barrages later, the enemy's engines were blasted into ruins.
Ceaseless macro-cannon shells relentlessly pounded the enemy warship's vital sections, reducing this Hellfire-class battleship to a drifting space hulk in under 10 minutes.
"Look at that, all of you study carefully! This is how you fire a gun, understood?!"
"Not a single one of you can aim properly, what are you even good for—your accuracy and performance are utterly disappointing to me!"
Everyone in the weapon operations room plunged into heavy silence.
They had no clue what went wrong either; they had clearly calculated the enemy's ballistic trajectory and positioning, yet the enemy would invariably execute evasive maneuvers right before they pressed the firing button.
"Lord Primarch, there's no need to berate them so harshly!"
"They couldn't have anticipated the enemy possessing such methods and capabilities, falling into conventional thinking patterns, which is quite normal."
"You!" The one uttering these words was none other than Dantioch. The moment Dantioch spoke up, he instantly made Perturabo's face flush red with anger.
At this juncture, everyone could only admire Dantioch's courage; this fellow had remained this uncompromising ever since the 30k era.
"Get out of my sight!"
"No entering without my permission!"
"You bastard—you're really pushing your luck, aren't you?!"
"I was originally planning to praise you a bit, but you walk in and say something like that. You're deliberately trying to tick me off, right?!"
Dantioch offered no further argument, slinking away dejectedly without another word.
Yet the moment Dantioch stepped outside, the stubborn Perturabo turned to praise the rebellious child to the rest of the room.
"Look at him, you should all take notes!"
"You bunch of cowards, none of you even have the courage to advise me. What are you even good for?"
"As Iron Warriors, staunch both inside and out, are you really that terrified of death?"
"Besides, my decimation doesn't actually kill you off permanently. What's wrong? Have you even lost the courage to serve forced labor, huh?"
"Emmmm—"
The crew had zero recourse against their loli mother's reprimand; even the argumentative Dantioch was helpless.
You might argue a bit with your biological dad, but trying to talk back to the loli mother before you was a fool's errand.
Offer advice, get chewed out, roll out immediately.
This certainly wasn't the old Dantioch's personality, because the old Dantioch would stubbornly argue things through to the very end.
"Ahahaha!" Laughter rang out once more from the other end of the comms link.
Clearly, Perturabo's reprimand had once again made her the butt of Angron's amusement.
"Angron, stop laughing over there. Why don't you offer me some advice on how to get these kids to show a bit of initiative?"
Lately, Perturabo had been trying to emulate Angron, attempting to foster better expression skills among her children.
However, aside from Dantioch, most of her scions seemed entirely disinclined to converse with her much.
Perturabo had hoped to leverage this battle to iron out her children's issues, but reality proved she genuinely lacked aptitude in this area.
Angron pondered for a moment while managing her fleet's combat operations; her transhuman brain could easily handle multitasking, and this minor issue was hardly troublesome.
"Oh, right!"
Angron raised a finger, offering a terrible piece of advice.
"I hear that commanders who maintain good relationships with mortals and subordinate soldiers eat and sleep alongside their troops!"
"Perhaps you could give this trick a try. I imagine it should be extremely effective!"
"So—that's how it is!"
Perturabo felt her words made sense, prompting her to issue a truly absurd command.
[Decimation Revision: Out of every 11 people, only ONE gets to cuddle and sleep with Mom!]
"Mom, this move is too ruthless, I can't handle it!"
In an instant, the Iron Warriors, previously lacking in expressive desire, completely lost their lack of expressive desire!
The typically taciturn Iron Warriors were now shouting for Mom out of sheer anxiety!
[Caleb: Given your sleeping posture, I have a feeling you'll end up kicking the kid next to you to death in your sleep!]
[Perturabo: Impossible, absolutely impossible! While I do suffer from involuntary combat sleep-murder, the probability is extremely low, absolutely not.]
"Alright, alright, alright!"
Caleb was rendered speechless. Past decimation filled people with terror; modern decimation filled people with excitement!
Hopefully the future Iron Warriors could hold themselves together, avoiding meaningless charges, lest they genuinely turn into the Krieg of the Space Marines.
"For Perturabo! For the Primarch!"
While Perturabo was present, these rebellious children didn't dare show it openly.
Yet the moment the Primarch departed, upon learning the rules of the newest version of decimation, all the Iron kids plunged into a state of surface composure masking internal ecstasy.
As the saying went: Iron Warriors, staunch both inside and out.
If one's arms didn't fold around a steel-plated loli mother, how could one truly be called an Iron Warrior?
Thus—the Iron Warriors, already holding xenos in contempt, grew all the more fanatical.
"For the Primarch's white thigh-highs—"
However, among so many, there was bound to be an anomaly, with Dantioch standing out as the most glaring example.
The crowd: "Is this fellow even Perturabo's kid?"
Everyone stared blankly at this anomaly. How to put it? It felt as though spending too much time hanging around those Imperial Fists folks had made his brain somewhat malfunction.
Sure enough—nothing good ever came from collaborating with the Imperial Fists; for instance, one's brain turning to stone, which was exceedingly dangerous.
> [Perturabo: Rules Horror #3: Do not get too close to the Iron Warriors, or you will turn into stone—a stone in your thinking.]
A Forge Master recorded this sentence in silence. Lately, he had been closely observing the Primarch while also keeping a watchful eye on Dantioch, who was branded a rebellious child.
Although Perturabo reprimanded him constantly, everyone could sense that the Primarch seemed quite fond of him as well.
This complex state of love and hate piqued the curiosity of numerous Forge Masters, while simultaneously placing Dantioch on the list of targets held in secret grudge.
"What are you all still waiting for? Prepare for ultra-range boarding!"
"Since Primarch Mother has rewarded us so generously, wouldn't it be improper not to make a few proper achievements for Mother to see?"
Dantioch chuckled as he spoke, his laughter looking utterly unpromising, yet no one raised the slightest objection.
It couldn't be helped—truth be told, none of them were particularly promising either, because they simply couldn't turn down having a cute Primarch Mother sleeping beside them.
So-called ultra-range boarding meant warriors wearing Tartaros-pattern Terminator armor directly boarded torpedo capsules to execute a forced breaching action.
When the warriors inside drew close to the target, they would suddenly initiate a high-potency teleportation device to forcibly breach the enemy's interior!
This combat doctrine was exceedingly extreme, carrying a remarkably high probability of getting stuck inside a bulkhead and dying.
Yet whenever it succeeded, it invariably achieved flawless shock-tactics results.
You wouldn't even register as a signal ping on the enemy's radar—by the time their warp displacement signature flickered, you would have already charged inside their warship to conduct a slaughter.
Regarding this, the current Iron Warriors were all eager to give it a try—because according to the rules, taking initiative in combat without Perturabo's permission resulted in punishment via Perturabo's decimation.
Which meant wouldn't they get to sleep over? This rule hadn't even been amended yet!
[Caleb: Utterly insane!]
Looking at these eager Iron Warriors, Caleb pondered: Are these even still Iron Warriors? What on earth are they playing at? Everything has gone completely off the rails, hey!
[Caleb: By the way, take this!]
Caleb needed to give Perturabo a hand; hopefully, she wouldn't get poked in the rear end by her own children tonight.
Clang clang clang!
Caleb directly tossed down a massive stack of standard power armor models. After a bout of "Designation" on his end, these models all transformed into Mark VIII power armor.
This power armor mark was exceptionally rare, typically equipped exclusively by specialized forces like the Grey Knights.
It possessed enhanced Warp resistance and boosted anti-daemon properties.
It worked wonders against Chaos-aligned enemies; rumors even held that certain sacredly blessed variants contained Malcador's ashes.
Far away on Terra, Malcador, who was still repairing the Webway, couldn't help a sudden pause in his expression.
He was currently concentrating intently on repairing the conduits, yet for some unknown reason, he suddenly felt a chill down his spine, as though someone was using his ashes to conduct unspeakable deeds.
"This is even more advanced power armor!"
"Dad, do you have an STC construction template?"
"This armor looks far higher-grade than the Mark III; it looks so thick and heavy. I'm going to equip all my kids with it!"
Resembling a small duckling, Perturabo lifted a set of armor and began inspecting it carefully.
Upon recognizing the exquisite craftsmanship of this armor, she instantly felt that the original mass-produced Mark III power armor was utter garbage.
Having shut herself indoors for too long, Perturabo had completely neglected military developments.
Lately, she had been obsessing over building an Ideal City, entirely ignoring the research and development of weaponry and equipment.
Because of this, the current Iron Warriors were still utilizing old, outdated Mark III power armor, whereas Guilliman, Leon, and Sanguinius over on their side were already deploying Primaris-pattern Mark X.
Consequently, Angron and Perturabo over here still retained massive stockpiles of Mark III, which could be considered quite embarrassing.
"Have your scions re-equip first—later I'll give you the STC construction template, and I'll even grant you an even more formidable Primaris conversion plan!"
"Guilliman and Leon over on their side are already conducting major upgrades on the loyalists' weaponry. If you fall too far behind, you won't even be able to protect your own small plot of land in the future!"
"Uh—"
Perturabo scratched her head. Having been dazzled by farming lately, she had indeed neglected development in this area.
However, during the Great Crusade era, decades without technological progress was standard fare.
Thus, she had never anticipated that in such a brief span of time, earth-shattering transformations would occur among the loyalists.
At this moment, Perturabo even harbored an illusion, feeling that this so-called father wasn't that cold, unfeeling fellow, the Emperor, at all.
Would the Emperor treat her this well? Would he give her little toys like this? Would he protect her children properly?
Truth be told, if the Emperor had treated her like this from the very start, perhaps things wouldn't have degraded to such a state.
The conflicted girl's mind tangled up once more.
On the surface, she wasn't particularly inclined to accept the Emperor's assistance, yet when it came to actual execution, she demanded toys just like a small child.
It was fortunate that Caleb possessed mind-reading capabilities; otherwise, with a conflicted mind like hers, it was genuinely impossible to guess what she was thinking.
---
Meanwhile, on the other side.
Erebus, who had orchestrated this entire scheme, was gloating as he watched the expeditionary fleet plunged into a melee.
What he wanted was precisely to drive a wedge between the Black Legion expeditionary fleet and these traitor legions that had broken free from Chaos control.
As for the ultimate outcome, the Chaos side would benefit regardless.
The Immaterium had even granted him blessings, making him feel a few steps closer to becoming a Daemon Prince.
"Heh—"
Caleb looked at the extremely narcissistic Erebus on the chessboard, unable to refrain from a chuckle.
This fellow, having slaved away for Chaos for so long, still held merely the title of Champion, failing to even acquire the title of Prince.
Many Company Commanders—even those after the legions were restructured into Chapters—could potentially ascend to Daemon Prince status.
Yet this most famous troublemaker in Chaos had surprisingly failed to become a Prince, which was quite strange indeed.
Then again, even if Erebus wished to become a Prince, no single deity would likely claim him.
He was probably somewhat similar to Perturabo previously, belonging to the Chaos Undivided category.
However, achieving Chaos Undivided wasn't simply a matter of doing odd jobs for Chaos.
Even Be'lakor, whom the four gods refused to choose, knew how to trick subsidies and repeatedly hop between factions.
Yet in Erebus's case, he had turned into an absolute external contractor for the four Chaos Gods.
Put it this way: if Caleb killed him and extended a giant golden hand, the Chaos Gods wouldn't even bat an eye.
To the Chaos Gods, the chess piece named Erebus was likely a complimentary starter unit from the beginner village.
"Got it!"
Caleb suddenly recalled that Angron used to maintain a rather decent relationship with Lorgar. Back then, seeing the heavily wounded Angron, Lorgar had wished to save his life, only to be tricked by Erebus into turning him into a Daemon Primarch.
[Caleb: Angron, I've designated a target for you: capture that guy named Erebus!]
Back when you were turned into a nail-head, he held a share of the blame. If he hadn't cast that bizarre Warp sorcery on you at the end, perhaps you wouldn't have had to become that red demon who slaughtered everywhere!
[Angron: Is that so!]
Angron placed absolute trust in this voice.
Because for so long, this fatherly voice had never tricked him once.
To distinguish it from Father himself, he even referred to this voice as "Father's Conscience."
Angron even felt that if he met Father in person, Father might not necessarily treat him with such patience.
Yet this will was different; it explained everything patiently, as if keeping zero secrets from him.
Angron pondered for a brief moment, subsequently focusing his gaze onto the mission target selected by Father.
That was Erebus's flagship, the Abyss-class battleship Sanctified PRAYER.
This was a vessel frequently utilized by Lorgar as his flagship back during the 30k era, and now this ship had fallen into Erebus's hands as well.
---
"Dammit—what on earth did that beast Erebus do? That absolute bastard!"
"My orders can't even be transmitted out. What the hell is this group's deal?!"
The undefeated Abaddon had never suffered such humiliation in his life.
He had never imagined that his glorious combat record had actually relied entirely on the weaving of Chaos power.
Upon departing from that power he relied on for survival, his undefeated, sky-defying schemes felt like a deflated balloon.
None of his tactics worked as smoothly as before, and his planning frequently ended up in vain.
Stripped of the Lord of Change's subtle interference, stripped of Khorne's martial blessings, stripped of Nurgle's resilient support.
Only now did Abaddon realize that his former self had plunged completely into the abyss of Chaos.
He wasn't actually the most exceptional one; he was merely lucky enough not to be completely corrupted during his period of service to Chaos.
Having played easy mode for so long, Abaddon, suddenly thrust into hard mode, began to feel unaccustomed to the current battlefield.
Before Primarch-level strength, the things he had once taken pride in were directly severed by Erebus's petty scheme.
He had even fantasized countless times about how he should conduct himself upon meeting those legendary Primarchs, so as not to bring shame upon his genetic father, Horus.
Yet reality proved that without the power of a Chaos Warmaster, he couldn't even break through a petty trick.
Abaddon sat upon his command throne, sullenly looking at his brothers down below.
These brothers who had accompanied him through south and north campaigns had likewise never endured such humiliation.
"Warmaster, why don't we execute a forced boarding on Erebus's flagship directly? Even if all our Daemon Engines have failed, and even if all our comms systems suffer interference!"
"I refuse to believe that pointing a boltgun at that fellow's head won't blow his brains out!"
"As long as we board their ship, perhaps there's still a sliver of a chance!"
"Heh—"
Abaddon let out a bitter laugh, laughing with utter desolation.
He hadn't even taken his genetic father seriously at first, only coming to a sudden realization upon witnessing the destruction of the Blackstone Fortress.
Relying on Chaos power to grow strong was entirely an overdraft loan.
The moment one touched that power, even someone as mighty as Father was bound to become a slave to Chaos.
In that moment he felt fear—not fear of death, but worry that an uncontrollable force would drag him into the abyss.
He could die on the battlefield, or perish within any seemingly absurd scheme.
Yet he strictly could not become a slave to this power; that was something the proud Abaddon could never accept.
"We lost from the very beginning!" Abaddon uttered word by word.
Subsequent to this, he looked at the near-useless auspex, stating somberly:
"Perhaps when I raised my blade against those emissaries and cultists, the Chaos Gods had already noticed my betrayal."
"I possess no qualification to escape that power's grasp, nor the qualification to defy it."
"They wish to clean house, eliminating those Primarchs who have broken free from the Immaterium!"
"Perhaps that final sentence Father uttered to us was also guided by Chaos power. From the start, we were all tricked; we are merely the donkeys slaughtered after the mill-work is done!"
"Even though we achieved illustrious military merits and fought for so many years."
Abaddon laughed, feeling it almost ironic. Back then, Father had accepted the power of Chaos to avoid the fate of the Thunder Warriors.
Yet in the end, his outcome didn't seem much better than the Thunder Warriors', perhaps even worse.
At least those Thunder Warriors died when they died, dying thoroughly without lingering agony.
Yet if one served Chaos, one couldn't even rest in peace upon death!
"But Warmaster, are we just going to sit here and await death like this? I refuse to accept it!"
"Back when I followed the Primarch across south and north campaigns for so many years, when did we ever fall into such a plight!"
"Perhaps we still have a chance—maybe we should try that power!"
A veteran directed his gaze toward an object: a massive forcefield cage imprisoning a holy angel, a Living Saint.
Inside that completely halted spacetime, this Living Saint maintained a slashing posture.
Even though her body was covered in wounds, the Emperor's majestic power still aided her restoration, keeping her standing firm.
She was an unkillable existence; without specialized methods, there was no killing her off for good.
Abaddon had expended immense effort, utilizing this forcefield from the Dark Age of Technology, just to trap her.
Now it seemed he actually had to rely on this power; it was truly somewhat ironic.
"Having the Living Saint resolve the issue might actually be quite a fine choice!"
"Hahaha—Erebus, oh Erebus!"
"Wanting to betray me, wanting me to lose—impossible!"
"How could I, the undefeated Abaddon, possibly lose!"
"Even if I lose, I will never let you win!"
A hint of madness surfaced in Abaddon's expression. He was gambling—gambling that the Emperor's power could permeate through the Living Saint's shell into this place!
As long as his gamble succeeded, Erebus was bound to be finished, and it might even drag down Lorgar behind him as well, killing two birds with one stone.
As for himself—at worst, he faced the risk of forfeiting his life.
Yet rumor held that getting slain by a Living Saint incurred the price of soul obliteration; no matter how one sliced it, it was far better than dying at the hands of Chaos daemons.
"Open the gate, release Celestine!"
In merely the span of a single sentence, the forcefield was disengaged.
Living Saint Celestine, witnessing this scene, raised her Ardent Blade and charged toward Abaddon without a moment's hesitation!
With a single glance she recognized that the Abaddon before her was the commander here. As long as she slew this Chaos Warmaster, the Siege of Cadia would surely be resolved.
"Abaddon, prepare to die! For Cadia!"
[Caleb: Um—is there a possibility that Cadia has already exploded!]
Watching Abaddon get run through by a sword, a chess piece quickly appeared in Caleb's hand.
That was Abaddon's chess piece. This fellow's tactic succeeded; he was fortunate enough not to become a prisoner, returning instead to the Golden Throne.
Simultaneously, he shattered Erebus's scheme through death, making a choice similar to his old man's, living up to the legacy of the Sons of Horus.
"Wait, why does it feel like this Celestine is getting weaker and weaker!"
"Oh, right, the Emperor is currently repairing the toilet, so his power is a bit weak, and Celestine's signal in Imperium Nihilus isn't great either—that is indeed a problem!"
Caleb paid it no mind—he merely took an angel chess piece, directly overlapping it with Celestine's piece.
[Designation Successful—300 deployment points deployed. Deployment unit: Living Saint Celestine. Connection established between you and Celestine.]
"Mmm—"
Looking at Celestine as she regained her radiance, Caleb couldn't help nodding.
The Emperor had lost his signal, but Caleb's signal was constantly online.
Although the bandwidth ceiling was a bit lower, this signal strength was far stronger than the Emperor's.
[Caleb: Celestine, go get 'em! Slay that great traitor Erebus!]