The Iron Warriors underwent a new round of special training. Unlike the previous desperate battles and large-scale campaigns, this training was highly targeted.
The sky was blood-red. Heavy clouds crackled with continuous lightning, each bolt striking the ground and blooming into clusters of green fire.
A massive hive city was burning. Black-red pillars of smoke surged skyward, and countless bodies were scattered among the ruins of crumbling structures — some dressed in civilian clothing, some in Imperial Guard uniforms, and others... in black Astartes power armour.
The black armour was etched with blasphemous runes. The Legion markings on the pauldrons had been twisted into demonic symbols, and the helmet visors had been warped by psychic corruption into grotesque, snarling faces.
The eight-pointed star emblazoned across their backs and shoulders made their allegiance unmistakable.
Heads — both mortal and Astartes — hung from spikes, some from the Imperial side, others from the traitors' own.
Dantioch had seen this armour before. He had seen far too much of it in prior training.
The Black Legion.
That was the name he had learned for them during training.
A rabble.
That was Dantioch's assessment. Their combat capability was passable, but they lacked cohesion — mercenary in spirit, contemptuous of discipline, and fundamentally cowardly.
And so, despite their decent individual strength, Dantioch had consistently routed them with forces several times smaller than their own.
But this time was different.
It wasn't only Black Legion armour on the ground. Astartes in all manner of other colours lay scattered as well — motionless, as though dead.
"New training module added: Chaos Corruption."
A cold, synthetic voice echoed in his mind.
"Mission objective: survive ninety-six hours within a Chaos-corrupted environment and locate the extraction point."
"Enemy forces: Chaos-corrupted renegade Astartes and daemonic entities from the Warp."
In that single instant, Dantioch felt a splitting pain erupt inside his skull.
The pain was unlike any physical agony. It originated somewhere deep within his consciousness — at the very foundation of his soul, at the most fundamental level of his existence as a person.
He could feel something attempting to enter his mind. Attempting to corrode his thoughts. Attempting to alter his very nature.
The force was savage. It did not even bother to conceal itself. It made no effort to erode him gradually, quietly, through slow and patient change.
It was swift. It was violent. It carried the absolute conviction of something that would rather destroy what it could not possess. It fell upon Dantioch with frenzied ferocity.
"Get out!"
He roared, attempting to forcibly expel the invading presence from his consciousness.
But more force surged in — endlessly.
Dantioch felt like a solitary leaf-boat adrift on a savage ocean, with a leviathan lurking in the pitch-black abyss below, ready to swallow him whole.
The purple lightning in the sky grew denser. Each strike blossomed into a green fireball around him. Dark blue rain hammered down against his armour. Within the flames, twisted faces and writhing limbs flickered at the edges of perception. A foul stench bypassed his filtration systems entirely and invaded his nostrils, detonating in his chest.
Then the corpses began to move.
The renegade Astartes in black armour rose slowly. Their movements were stiff and uncanny, as though controlled by some unseen force. Beneath their helmet visors burned an ominous red light.
Gradually, their bodies regained fluidity — and their minds began to sharpen.
"Kill him!"
A commanding voice rang out from somewhere nearby. The renegade Astartes charged as one.
Dantioch wanted to run. He was no fool. Fighting these enemies in his current state was simply impossible.
In this Chaos-saturated environment, every second of combat would drain his willpower, making it easier for the corrupting force to penetrate his consciousness.
But he could not run. The corruption had already begun working through his organs. It had no interest in his intentions. His body was not strong enough to resist it.
His body grew heavy. Even his masterwork power armour — usually indistinguishable from his own skin — seemed to take on a life of its own in this moment, fusing with him in a real and visceral way, clinging to his flesh and blood.
"Aah—!"
Dantioch bellowed in fury. He drew his masterwork power sword from his hip — it too was being corrupted — and his nearly three-metre frame surged toward the traitors. If he could not escape, he would fight.
Dantioch was ferocious. Even as his speed dulled somewhat, his physical prowess held.
One stroke took the head from the foremost traitor — one of those screaming madmen with what looked like neural cables growing from his skull. His left hand deflected a thrusting blade from a purple, blasphemy-steeped warrior. Blood traced down his arm, but Dantioch's sword pivoted and cleaved the traitor shoulder-to-hip.
Then a single downward cut split the bloated, sluggish plague-ridden warrior before him in two. The creature's regeneration was useless; its heavy defences were opened like cutting through tofu.
Three traitors dispatched in the span of a single engagement — yet Dantioch felt nothing. Killing vermin was no glory. And his condition was deteriorating badly.
A Gastrin's heavy bolter opened up, sweeping in his direction. Dantioch looked for cover but found none. The plague warrior's thick corpse was torn to shreds in under five seconds.
Just as Dantioch was preparing to charge again, a powerful force suddenly locked onto him — not corruption, but outright psychic control.
A psyker!
Dantioch's psychic resistance was respectable, but in this moment it was not enough. The force could not fully control him, but it clamped down on his movement like iron.
Before the Gastrin's bolt rounds could shatter his skull, Dantioch glimpsed two black-armoured Astartes advancing toward him.
He recognised the one in front — the Astartes who had once absorbed thirteen full-force power fist blows from his commander, each strike equivalent to the battering ram of a Dreadnought, and had still stood like iron, then counter-killed him dead.
Behind him followed an Astartes whose helmet featured two tall curving horns — but unlike the red-armoured traitors around him.
Blue psychic energy crackled around his hands. Dantioch was certain: this was the one who had locked him down.
But there was nothing Dantioch could do now.
Cassius sat up from the metal pod, gasping.
His body was uninjured. But his consciousness and psyche had endured enormous strain.
The thirty-fifth day.
He had now completed one hundred and two additional training scenarios, and had experienced the horror of Chaos corruption ninety-three times.
Each time, he had struggled at the edge of collapse, forcing himself through by sheer willpower.
But each time, the corrupting forces left something behind in his consciousness.
Not damage. Traces.
The faces of corrupted renegade Astartes. The screaming of daemonic entities. The souls writhing in despair...
"My Lord, your physiological indicators have returned to normal."
A medical servitor hovered beside him, its optical lenses blinking with cold light.
"According to the Logic Engine's analysis, your willpower rating has increased by seventeen point three percent. Your resistance to psychic intrusion has increased by twenty-one point six percent."
Cassius nodded and climbed out of the metal pod.
His steps were unsteady at first, but he recovered quickly.
He walked to the rest area and requested a tube of nutrition paste — flavoured with dragon fruit, honeydew melon, and shrimp. He sat in a corner and ate it slowly. This was his way of walking himself back from the psychological fog of training.
It wasn't just him. Nearly all his battle-brothers did the same.
Dantioch was there too. The newly promoted Warsmith had finished training earlier and was working through a tube of Sichuan pepper, fresh orange, and Oreo-flavoured nutrition paste.
"How are you feeling?"
Cassius paused, silent for a moment.
"Like I was about to be eaten alive."
Dantioch's gaze grew distant.
"Same. But I think I understand now why Father made us go through this, Cassius."
"Why?"
"I used to think Chaos was just the renegade Astartes. The daemons. The blasphemous rituals."
"The Imperial Truth has its flaws, but Father still quietly accepted the Emperor spreading it across Olympia. I once thought that was a political concession. But looking back now, Father must have supported the Emperor's decision."
"The Warp is saturated with malice. They want to tear apart our souls and devour them."
"They love to toy with our souls — as if it were a game. They craft their temptations meticulously, and when subtlety fails, they simply pour corruption in by force. All of it just to watch us thrash and suffer in the mire. And when they grow bored, they simply swallow us whole."
"Their corruption finds every gap. Scheming. Coercion. There is nothing they won't do. What they love most is whispering directly into your mind — slowly rotting your reason from the inside."
"What they most enjoy using against us is our brothers, and the uncountable masses of mortals — because they know we are not afraid to die."
"Every time, I refused them. Because it isn't a matter of choice. The moment you accept their power, you are no longer yourself. You take one step, then another, deeper into the abyss."
Cassius thought back to his experiences in training.
The voices whispering at his ear. The temptations that surfaced in moments of despair. The shortcuts that flickered at the edge of collapse.
He had refused them too.
But he wasn't sure. If the next situation were more desperate than the last — could he still refuse?
"You will."
Dantioch seemed to read his thoughts.
"Because we are Iron Warriors."
"Steel without and steel within."
Cassius said it almost without thinking.
He repeated the words again, then stood. The firm, unyielding quality he carried returned to him.
"Come, brother. Training continues. There are harsher trials still waiting for us. We cannot disappoint Father."
Dantioch nodded and followed him out of the rest area.
Outside the training terminal, Perturabo stood before a holographic display, studying the training data for Dantioch and Cassius.
He valued these two sons greatly.
Dantioch — a born commander. Resolute, precise in thought. Exceptional performance in the Solk Campaign. Consistently the highest completion rate across all additional training scenarios.
Cassius — a born warrior. Fearless and ferocious, his reaction speed extraordinary. Every close-quarters engagement revealed a breathtaking natural talent.
They would be the Iron Warriors' brightest stars in the years to come.
But Perturabo knew they still lacked something.
Not capability. Conviction.
The kind of conviction that holds fast even in the most hopeless of circumstances. That keeps the mind clear even when corruption has reached the depths of the soul. That never abandons itself even when the whole world has abandoned you.
When they reached that level — then they would truly become the backbone of the Legion.
And these things required time to forge.
Forrix and the earliest Warsmiths were performing the best. Every time, without hesitation, they chose loyalty. They didn't waver for a moment — and their resistance to Chaos was growing ever stronger.
Perturabo wasn't entirely sure whether this stemmed from loyalty to him as their father, or from a fierce personal refusal to become one of those blasphemous things. The distinction mattered — but he chose not to concern himself with it now.
He now had the means to shelter his sons.
The Daemon Forge had locked onto every soul on Olympia, granting them considerable innate resistance when facing Chaos corruption.
But Perturabo placed far greater value on personal will.
He turned to another screen — the recruits' training.
They too were required to undergo this special training. The Iron Warriors had no privileges or exemptions. Even commanders were expected to struggle and suffer through it.
Iron willpower was not something everyone possessed — even among these children, selected as the finest from among the finest of Olympia's academies.
Some of them simply could not withstand Chaos corruption. That was not the kind of problem that could be solved by resetting the simulation and building resistance gradually.
Chaos corruption — once you accepted it even once, it became a shift from zero to infinite. There was no going back.
Of the ninety-eight thousand Iron Warriors across two different recruit training cohorts, forty-four thousand simply could not withstand the corruption.
Some lacked the willpower. Others were overwhelmed by the sheer force of what was poured into them. Perturabo was genuinely disappointed. He did not want his sons to be so fragile before Chaos.
Even if the corruption he had simulated was drawn from his own psychic ability.
Perturabo was not truly worried about his sons being corrupted. Everything he had gone to such lengths to construct was simply meant to give them additional psychic resistance — enough that, should they one day face a powerful psyker, the Iron Warriors' already-scarce psyker population would not suffer for it.
What he had not anticipated was how many of his sons would fail to hold.
This lodged itself deep in Perturabo's chest — a sharp, unforgiving irritation. For a man whose standards were already extraordinarily high, this felt like a personal affront.
A dark thought surfaced in his mind — but only for an instant before he cut it off entirely. Instead, he turned to the Daemon Forge's internal metrics and doubled the workload.
That day, the Daemon Forge's exhaust pipes belched black smoke with unusual ferocity. The entire structure thundered so loudly it reverberated through the Warp itself. Amid the rumbling, crackling sounds could just barely be made out — along with continuous "go work" commands and the mournful wailing of miserable entities.
Perturabo seemed to sense something. The grim blankness on his face deepened further.
"Sister. What brings you here?"
Calliphone did not answer. She simply walked to his side and gently took his hand.
"You're worried about them."
"I simply don't want them crying out for me to rescue them every time they face a minor setback."
He lowered the danger ratings on the recruits' training metrics from red to blue without a word, his tone carrying a sharp edge.
"This is necessary training."
"If they cannot endure even this, they have no right to call themselves Iron Warriors."
"I know."
Calliphone nodded. Perturabo had expected his sister to argue for easing the conditions — she often did. She didn't truly understand the cruelty of the galaxy, and in some matters that made her almost naive.
"You need to rest, Abo."
"I don't need that."
"You've been worrying about them, researching new technology, dealing with the Mechanicus situation — you haven't stopped since you rejoined the Imperium. You haven't even made those chess pieces you used to."
Calliphone could see it clearly: her brother genuinely cared about these people. He wanted them to live. And yet some sense of obligation seemed to compel him to send them out regardless.
On Olympia, Perturabo's list of tasks never ended — researching new technology, optimising new designs, training the Iron Warriors and Iron Custodians, occasionally setting aside time to deal with political affairs...
Every task he handled personally. In every task, he could not afford mistakes.
He would not rest. Because the moment he stopped, something might be overlooked — a flaw forgotten, a crisis missed.
Perturabo despised the consequences of his own momentary lapses. And so he drove himself relentlessly toward perfection in all things, even knowing that was impossible.
But Calliphone did not press further. She knew that once her brother was in the grip of work, no one could reach him. He had always been that way.
"When you've finished everything, let's go to the opera together. I want to see one with you and Andros."
Perturabo was quiet for a moment. A flicker of guilt passed through his deep blue eyes. He doubted he would have the time for a very long while.
The opera was a leisure indulgence. What he truly loved was engineering and the forge.
"Alright."
Calliphone smiled — warm and radiant.
Three months.
Three months had passed since Archmagos Hermex and his Mechanicus delegation had remained behind on Olympia.
In those three months, Perturabo had barely left his forge.
Between researching and upgrading equipment, he monitored his sons' special training.
But he also observed — observed the tech-priests. Their rate of learning and their shifting mindsets were of primary interest to him, as was their loyalty.
To put it bluntly: the hearts of tech-priests were not easily settled. They would not offer their loyalty lightly based on something as superficial as apparent miracles.
They were stubborn and hidebound. But also very intelligent.
The result surprised him somewhat.
Of all of them, Hermex had proven to be the most loyal.
After Perturabo had thrown cold water on the Archmagos's initial wave of fervent worship, something seemed to have been activated in the man.
He now worked more than twenty hours a day in the forge — either working the production lines on Olympia's foundries with his own hands, or deep inside the Logic Engine's databases, studying technical records he had never encountered before.
Here, phenomena were described with mathematics. Principles were explained by physics. Hypotheses were verified through experiment.
No mystery. No worship. No unknowable.
Only knowledge and science: measurable, calculable, and verifiable.
Hermex found himself thinking of his youth — back when he had still retained much of his flesh.
In those days, he too had worked like Olympia's engineers — feeling the temperature of metal with his hands, watching the movement of gears with his eyes, thinking through problems with his mind.
Over the years, he had cut away more and more of his flesh, installed more and more machinery, and become ever more "rational" — and ever more mechanical.
Three days ago, Hermex had stood in Perturabo's forge, his voice carrying a complex undercurrent.
"Omnissiah."
"I am not a god," Perturabo replied without looking up.
But the Archmagos was not deterred.
"I have lived on Mars for four hundred and seventy-two years. I have recited prayers for four hundred and fifty-one years. I have applied sacred oils for four hundred and forty years. I have presided over Machine Spirit awakening rituals for three hundred and seventy-two years."
"And yet I find that every machine here — every invention — has no Machine Spirit. Requires no sacred oil. Needs no burning of incense or prayers."
"Without any preparatory ritual, they run better than any machine on Mars. Even the God-Machines and the Gloriana-class battleships require no auxiliary crew to operate — they pilot themselves."
Perturabo was calibrating a prototype of the newly designed Basilisk Cannon, and did not raise his head.
"Because rituals don't make machines function. Only correct design, proper manufacture, and precise maintenance do."
"I know."
"From the look of it, you don't."
"Knowing and truly understanding are two different things."
"And do you truly understand now?"
"I am beginning to."
"I have a question for you."
"Mm?"
"Why are you willing to teach us?"
Perturabo finally looked up.
"Because you are not beyond saving."
The Archmagos went still.
"The Mechanicus's problem is not technological backwardness — it is intellectual rigidity. You have taken simple technology and made it unnecessarily complex. You have deified your tools. You have locked away all knowledge. But you yourselves are not hopeless."
"Your logic modules are still functioning. Your minds are still thinking. Your hands can still create. You only need someone to show you the correct path, and you can find your own way from there."
"Do you think these machines appeared from nothing? Or did you pray and bow them into existence?"
"At the end of the day, didn't you build them yourselves?"
"If there truly were gods, then they would simply be liars who stole the fruits of your hard labour."
Inside Hermex's augmetic eyes, the red glow flickered at an unprecedented frequency — a signal that something drastic was occurring in his processors.
"Omnissiah..."
"I have said — I am not a god."
"But You have shown me the existence of god."
Hermex's voice carried a near-devotional serenity.
"Not a god that demands worship. But a god that created order."
"You have created things we could never achieve in a lifetime. You describe the world in mathematics. You explain it in physics. You transform it through engineering."
"This is how a god lives."
Perturabo found himself momentarily speechless. These things the Emperor could also do — and the humans of the Golden Age had done them far better than he had.
He had simply reached, in certain respects, a height that humanity had once attained. It was no miracle — merely a scientific development.
But it was apparently enough to inspire prostration.
He did not argue further. He disliked debate — even though he could reduce a room full of political animals to existential crisis if he chose. He had simply never done so. Crushing their skulls was considerably more straightforward than convincing them.
"In my forge: faith is faith, and engineering is engineering. Don't let one slow down the other."
"Understood."
Hermex departed.
If he truly understood, he wouldn't be sending secret messages back to Mars.
Perturabo watched the Archmagos's massive silhouette leave the forge, and shook his head.
Inside Hermex's processors, a new encrypted document was being compiled.
"A Definitive Theological Argument that the Fourth Primarch Perturabo is the Omnissiah and the Motive Force Incarnate."
Over these three months, he had collected an enormous body of evidence.
Those Abominable Intelligence constructs were not the "demon creations" described in Mechanicus scripture — they were pure, efficient, and perfect instruments of war.
Their core code had been written personally by the Omnissiah. Every logic module was as precise as a mathematical formula. Every decision algorithm had been validated through billions of simulations. They were tools — purely, perfectly so.
Olympia-pattern bolters: 30% greater range than standard, 50% higher accuracy, 80% lower malfunction rate.
Olympia-pattern power armour: 15% lighter than standard, yet 30% thicker, with 40% lower energy consumption.
Olympia-pattern armoured vehicles: more agile than anything the Mechanicus produced, heavier firepower, thicker armour — all operated by Logic Engines with reaction speeds far exceeding any human pilot.
And the engineering knowledge was accessible to ordinary people. On Olympia, engineers did not need decades of Mechanicus initiation to study advanced technology. If you had the ability, the persistence, and the passion, the Logic Engine would design a tailored learning program for you.
Olympia's engineers had no knowledge of the "mysteries of the Machine Spirit" — but they understood how to calculate stress distribution, how to optimise thermal efficiency, how to design more resilient structures.
And what they created surpassed even Mars's most revered "sacred artefacts."
All of this pointed to a single conclusion: Perturabo was not the Son of the Omnissiah. He was the Omnissiah.
Only a god could make machines truly live without ritual.
Only a god could create technology this advanced without the guidance of an STC.
And only a god would humbly deny his own divinity.
Hermex did not hesitate. He transmitted the encrypted document once more.
The Emperor is a deceiver. The true Omnissiah — the true Motive Force — is here.
Mars Forge World. The Forge-Temple of Kelbor-Hal.
Fabricator-General Kelbor-Hal sat upon his vast mechanical throne. His body was almost entirely mechanical — only his brain and a portion of his neural tissue remained biological. He had become fused with the temple itself. No one knew exactly how many black technologies and STCs he had stored away.
His augmetic eyes were a bespoke design, rimmed in gold — crafted deliberately to evoke the imagery of the Omnissiah. In the dim light of the temple, they glimmered with imperious golden radiance.
Before him now, a holographic projection floated in the air.
Hermex's encrypted report.
He had read it three times.
Each time, his processors reached the same conclusion: this is impossible.
But each time, he also confronted the evidence he could not ignore — the Fourth Primarch's technology exceeded the Mechanicus's every expectation. His forge contained Abominable Intelligence. His understanding of machinery had reached some kind of... transcendent level.
"He is not the Son of the Omnissiah. He is the Omnissiah himself."
The words echoed repeatedly through Kelbor-Hal's processors.
He was the Fabricator-General of Mars — the highest representative of the Mechanicus within the Imperium — the being closest to the Omnissiah of any living soul.
But he was no fool. Neither were the Archmagi. When the Emperor had made his grand arrival on Mars all those years ago, did anyone really think he had deceived them?
The Emperor and Malcador hadn't even tried very hard to deceive them. The truth was that the Emperor had not wanted another war, and Mars had not wanted to provoke an enemy that powerful. Otherwise, how could the twin-headed eagle of the Imperium ever have formed in the first place?
It was only after some of the Archmagi were genuinely won over by the Emperor that his identity as the Omnissiah had slowly solidified as official doctrine.
But the voice within Mars? That was clearly not the Emperor.
The priests didn't know. The Magi didn't know. But surely the Archmagi did? To say nothing of the Fabricator-General himself?
It was simply that everyone had, by unspoken agreement, chosen not to tear that particular veil.
The Imperium provided resources. Mars provided materiel. Both sides benefited. Both sides preferred it that way.
Mars knew perfectly well what the Emperor truly thought of the Mechanicus. But the Imperium could not function without them — and so the Emperor accepted the arrangement.
The Emperor said no to Abominable Intelligence — and yet which Archmagos didn't have a few automata and black-market technologies squirrelled away? To say nothing of the STCs.
Kelbor-Hal understood the Emperor's attitude toward the Mechanicus precisely: he needed their technology but despised their faith. He tolerated them because they were useful — not because he agreed with them.
If the Emperor learned that someone on Mars had been secretly making contact with a Primarch who openly employed Abominable Intelligence...
Countless possible consequences unfolded inside Kelbor-Hal's processors. None of them were pleasant.
And yet he could not ignore the contents of that report.
The Fourth Primarch's technology. Those optimised maintenance procedures. Those efficient designs. Those...
Kelbor-Hal pulled up another dataset — intelligence gathered by Mars's network regarding the Fourth Legion's expedition against the Solk Empire.
The data was limited. The Fourth Legion's communications were all encrypted, and they had apparently gone to deliberate lengths to isolate themselves from outside contact. But some things could not be hidden.
Fleet scale: three Gloriana-class battleships, twenty-two Emperor-class battleships, over five hundred cruiser-class line warships, and countless thousands of escort vessels beyond count.
This exceeded the standard configuration of any Legion. Even the Space Wolves or Night Lords could not compare. Aside from the mysterious First Legion, Kelbor-Hal could not name another Legion that could stand alongside them.
And then there were the Titan Legions. The intelligence could not confirm exact numbers, but according to the Solk Empire's surviving observation data, the Fourth Legion had deployed at least several hundred Titans in that campaign — including Emperor-class god-machines.
Several hundred Titans.
Kelbor-Hal's processors emitted a faint hum — his expression of shock.
The Forge World of Mars had operated for thousands of years and possessed only a few hundred Titans. The Fourth Legion, a Legion that had only rejoined the Imperium less than two years ago, had deployed hundreds of Titans in a single campaign.
What did that mean?
It meant the Fourth Primarch possessed an independent Titan manufacturing capability — entirely outside Mars's control. His mastery of forge technology had already surpassed the Mechanicus.
Hermex might be right.
Kelbor-Hal's mechanical throne gave a faint tremor.
Olympia. The Dome Palace. Perturabo's Private Forge. Fifteen days later.
Perturabo was calibrating a prototype of the newly designed Grand Cannon. Its bore reached a staggering one hundred and thirty-two metres. It was designed to fire specially constructed Plasma Nova rounds, capable of generating a vast vacuum zone within the target area.
In theory, it could destroy the defensive infrastructure of a massive hive city in a single shot.
Perturabo found himself recalling an old saying from his previous life.
Naval guns brought to land — pure thuggery.
Still, the overheating barrel and the projectile stability issues would need to be solved first.
His hands moved across the immense cannon barrel, and through each touch he could sense the temperature distribution within the metal, its stress state, the shifting of its microstructure.
His mind processed countless streams of data, cross-referencing them against the Logic Engine's calculations.
Then the Logic Engine spoke.
"My Lord, an encrypted transmission has been received from an external source. Origin point: the trading station 'Port Celos,' located three point three light-years from the Olympia system. The sender's identity is disguised as an ordinary merchant, but the encryption algorithm embedded in the transmission indicates the sender's true identity is likely a senior figure within the Mars Forge World."
Perturabo's brow shifted, almost imperceptibly.
"Content?"
"The ciphertext has been decoded."
A holographic projection expanded before him, displaying the text.
"To the Iron Lord of Olympia: Kelbor-Hal has taken a keen interest in your recent work and wishes to engage in certain private communications without attracting attention.
If you are willing, please transmit a simple signal through the following coordinates within thirty days of receiving this message."
Then followed the coordinates and the specific format for the encrypted signal.
"Kelbor-Hal."
He said the name quietly.
"My Lord — shall we respond?"
Perturabo did not answer immediately.
He was thinking.
What was Kelbor-Hal's motivation? Mere curiosity? Had he genuinely been moved by Hermex's report? Was this on the Emperor's orders? A complex political calculation? Some combination of all of the above?
Perturabo considered at length.
The Mechanicus was an integral component of the Imperium. They held countless ancient technologies and bodies of knowledge within their hands. Rigid and stagnant in thought, yes — but their very existence was an immense technological treasury.
If he could influence the Mechanicus — or at least draw part of it toward him...
Some rather dangerous ideas were forming in Perturabo's mind.
If it could truly be done, he could gain access to Mars's forge resources, reach the sealed STCs, and establish within the Imperium a technological network that belonged entirely to him.
"Respond."
Perturabo's voice was calm.
"Tell Kelbor-Hal that the forgemaster of Olympia is willing to engage in private communications with Mars. Let him designate the time and method for the next transmission."
"Yes, My Lord."
The Logic Engine began generating a response signal, encrypted in the format Kelbor-Hal had provided, transmitted through a meticulously designed signal channel.
The channel would pass through seven relay stations. At each one, the encryption method and transmission protocol would change — ensuring that even if intercepted, nothing could be traced back to Olympia.
Mars, then.
Perturabo's eyes turned toward where Mars lay in the darkness — its shadow-shrouded exterior making that great forge world, with its imprisoned Martian dragon, look formidable and vast.
Setting those thoughts aside, Perturabo returned his attention to the problems of the Grand Cannon.
Inside Kelbor-Hal's processors, countless possibilities were being generated.
The Fourth Primarch might respond. Might not respond. Might respond but refuse cooperation. Might respond but propose unacceptable terms.
For every possibility, he had prepared a corresponding countermeasure.
But what he hoped for most was that the Fourth Primarch would be willing to cooperate as an equal.
Not only because of any belief in the Omnissiah — though that was certainly a factor — but for far more practical reasons.
Mars needed to advance. He needed to advance.
The Mechanicus had stagnated for thousands of years, excavating the ruins of the past, replicating the technologies of their forebears, never truly creating anything new.
They had replaced research with prayer, experiment with ritual, innovation with worship.
Kelbor-Hal was exhausted by it. He had not achieved a genuine breakthrough in technological creation for a very long time.
The Emperor had severely restricted the Mechanicus's freedom to act. The liberty to explore and experiment at will was gone. The Mechanicus was declining — that was plain.
Not that this was entirely the Emperor's fault. Most of the progressive faction had been drawn away to assist with the Webway Project. Other major forge worlds had also produced remarkable figures, creating considerable pressure on Mars.
The tensions ran deep. No conflict had yet erupted, but something had been building in silence for a long time — and things pressed down long enough either explode or disappear.
Mars was clearly not the sort to disappear quietly.
The Fourth Primarch's emergence represented the possibility of change.
If that lord was truly the Omnissiah — no. He didn't need to be a god. He merely needed to be someone who could lead the Mechanicus out of its stagnation. That would be enough.
Kelbor-Hal's processors emitted a faint hum.
His processors ran at full speed, waiting for that signal.
Time passed, second by second.
Each second stretched like an age.
Finally — three seconds before the appointed deadline — a faint signal arrived on his private channel.
The signal was brief: a single simple string of numbers. But Kelbor-Hal's processors decrypted it almost instantaneously upon receipt.
"Received. Coordinates updated for thirty days hence as follows:..."
New coordinates and a new transmission method followed.
The Fourth Primarch had responded. He was willing to communicate.
Kelbor-Hal's augmetic eyes blazed with golden light. His processors spun up, generating a new encrypted document — longer this time, far more detailed.
He would demonstrate his sincerity to the Fourth Primarch. Demonstrate his value. Demonstrate what he could offer that lord.
Mars's intelligence. The internal affairs of the Mechanicus. The locations of sealed STCs...
And most importantly — his willingness to offer loyalty. But the method of that loyalty had to be handled with extreme care.
He would need to express it obliquely.
In the language of the Mechanicus. In coded phrases readable only to someone who truly understood the logic of machines.
"Most respected Iron Lord — I am grateful for your response.
In the depths of Mars, there are certain ancient ruins. They contain the inheritance of the Golden Age. Among that inheritance, there are some particular constructions that may prove of benefit to your research.
If you are willing, I can provide you with the precise locations of these ruins, as well as the conditions required to access them.
In exchange, I ask only to learn the forgotten truths under your guidance.
If you accept this proposal, please transmit a 'Yes' signal through the new coordinates in thirty days.
If you do not accept, please transmit a 'No' signal.
Whatever the outcome, I will respect your decision."
Kelbor-Hal finished the final word, reviewed it three times to confirm there were no vulnerabilities, then loaded the encrypted text onto an isolated data-crystal and transmitted it through that unregistered private channel.
He was confident. The Iron Lord would accept.
No forgemaster could refuse sealed STCs.
Perturabo's private forge.
He stood at the centre of the workshop, watching the Logic Engine decode the transmission from the Fabricator-General.
This Fabricator-General was extraordinarily careful.
"And yet it has only been a few decades, and Mars is already this impatient. These oil-blooded priests and their scheming little minds."
Perturabo understood Kelbor-Hal's meaning perfectly well.
"Respond."
His voice was even.
"Tell him: 'Yes.'"
"And tell him — if he is willing — that he may come to Olympia in person at an appropriate time. I will arrange a private tour."
"Yes, My Lord."
The Logic Engine began generating the response signal, encrypting it according to the new coordinates and transmission protocol, then dispatching it through the carefully constructed channel.
Mars — it would very soon have a new faction.
Not open. Not official. But present within Mars, invisible to anyone else.
This faction would be led by Kelbor-Hal, operating under the name of "studying the forgotten truths" — and would grow, gradually, under Perturabo's influence.
When the time was right, this faction would become his force within the Mechanicus.
A force capable of influencing Mars's decisions. Of providing technological resources. Of countering hostile powers.
A piece on the board, hidden in the shadow of the Imperium.
A flicker of light crossed Perturabo's eyes.
This is not ambition. Only necessary preparation.
Inside Kelbor-Hal's processors, a special document was being composed.
Its title: "A Preliminary Proposal for Establishing the 'Society for the Study of Ancient Technology' on Mars."
On the surface, this would appear to be a purely academic organisation — dedicated to the study and restoration of sealed ancient technologies.
Its membership would be drawn from Magi with a keen interest in ancient technology, with no direct affiliation to Mars's official institutions.
In reality, this "Society" would be the first secret faction he was building within Mars.
Its members would be carefully vetted — Archmagi and Magi dissatisfied with the status quo, willing to accept new ideas.
Their focus: the study of the "forgotten truths."
They would travel to Olympia in small groups, dispersed among supply shipments, for private technical visits.
Kelbor-Hal knew this was a dangerous game.
If discovered, they would be destroyed by the Emperor personally. Every component connected to the Mechanicus stripped from them. Exiled forever to the depths of Mars.
The entire Forge World might even face a great purge — after which the Imperium would simply elevate another forge world and another Fabricator-General.
But Kelbor-Hal could no longer endure this feeling. This sense of standing completely, utterly still — of straining forward and moving not one inch. It was unbearable.
No tech-priest could truly endure that feeling forever. The only difference was that some of them, choosing not to endure it, had given their allegiance to other gods entirely.
And Perturabo was the only hope he could see.
Kelbor-Hal saved that document to his private storage unit, then began composing another.
"To the great Iron Lord: I am grateful for your affirmation.
I have already begun preparing what you will need. The ruins in the depths of Mars require special clearance and decryption — I will need some time.
In the meantime, I am considering establishing a secret research organisation on Mars to better study and disseminate your technology.
This organisation will operate under the name 'Society for the Study of Ancient Technology.' Its members will be those we can trust, and we will travel to Olympia personally — under cover of logistics shipments — to receive instruction.
If you have any suggestions or requirements, please do not hesitate to communicate them."
Perturabo's private forge.
He stood at the workbench, updating the heavy bolt caster configuration for his Terminators. The current rate of fire was too slow — it needed a twenty percent increase.
His back was to four Warsmiths. In his hands was a massive heavy bolt caster — his own. Once the updates were complete, the production lines could be scaled accordingly.
"There is something I need to tell you all. Give you some preparation."
Perturabo turned to face them.
"Certain things are about to happen on Mars."
His voice was calm. But those words caused the hearts of all four Warsmiths to beat inexplicably faster.
"Fabricator-General Kelbor-Hal of Mars has established contact with me."
The pupils of Forrix and the others contracted slightly.
The Fabricator-General of Mars — the supreme leader of the Mechanicus.
Their Father had made contact with him? What was their Father planning?
Several minds immediately began constructing scenarios — none of them particularly reassuring.
"He is willing to provide us with Mars's resources and intelligence, to help us access sealed STCs, and — when the time comes — to offer his loyalty."
Perturabo's words left all four sons standing motionless.
They had just heard something they probably weren't supposed to hear.