Chapter 152: Perturabo Laughed His Ass Off at Me, Your Father
The enemy's offensive was as furious as a volcano, their searing battle-lust threatening to engulf the entire battlefield.
To complete their final ritual, the Iron Warriors were forced to abandon certain tactics, using their own deaths to divert the attention of the Dreadwing. They were deeply confused. Why were these Dark Angels fighting like madmen, their attacks like a furious storm, as if they wanted to completely vaporize their very souls, leaving not a single trace behind?
BOOM—
A barricade was cut in two by a melta-weapon. The gushing stream of fire formed a path of flames, the intense heat licking at the air, roasting the surrounding metal red-hot.
The Warsmith struggled to his feet, molten armor clinging to his skin, the searing pain making him grit his teeth. His faceplate was shattered, revealing a face covered in scars, but his eyes still burned with an unyielding fire. He looked up and saw the enemy advancing again, their steps steady and cold, like a merciless killing machine. He bent his knees slightly, trying to steady himself, but was suddenly knocked over by a figure that had burst through the curtain of fire.
The slaughter had reached its climax. The remaining Iron Warriors had been all but wiped out by the endless covering fire. On the battlefield, only the sporadic sounds of resistance and the roar of explosions remained.
And on the neglected ritual platform, around the magnificent soul circuit, one Warp rift after another was finally appearing, a dark light swirling within them, like eyes peering into reality.
"You are finished!" the Warsmith sneered, his voice hoarse but full of ridicule.
Their ritual was complete. The Lord of Iron would receive their gift, and the gaze of the Lord of Iron would once again fall upon them. A savage smile appeared on the Warsmith's lips.
The Dreadwing warrior gave him an indifferent look, his eyes showing no emotion, as if he were looking at a corpse that had long been dead. He raised his foot and stomped down. The Warsmith's head exploded like a watermelon, blood and brains splattering on the scorched earth.
They had never needed to deal with the so-called ritual. On the contrary, the Iron Warriors' self-righteousness had only facilitated their slaughter. The Dreadwing warrior's gaze swept across the battlefield and finally settled on the gradually forming Warp rift, a hint of disdain in his eyes.
As for the so-called ritual... although he was truly, truly annoyed with that Thousand Sons sorcerer, even he, with his vast knowledge, had to admit that this was an expert who far surpassed the vast majority of psykers.
On the ritual platform, the rifts finally linked together completely and began to slowly sink into the Empyrean. The dark light grew brighter and brighter, as if to swallow the entire space.
The Pain-Seer's hands clenched tighter and tighter, his knuckles white from the force. They were the psykers of the Iron Warriors' combat序列, and besides operating the daemon engines, they were also responsible for the execution of all Chaos rituals within the warband. At this moment, his forehead was covered in a cold sweat, but his eyes shone with a fanatical light.
With three squads of Iron Warriors, holding their boarding shields, using their bodies to block the bombardment of the Dreadwing, he had finally completed the ritual amidst the cannon fire.
Hmph~ A victorious smile appeared on his lips, as if he could already see the approval of the Lord of Iron.
Finally, the magnificent soul circuit, under the eager gaze of the last surviving Pain-Seer, was grasped by a hand wrapped in a crimson-gold gauntlet.
"???"
The Pain-Seer's eyes widened.
'How absurd. What in the world is this soul circuit? It can't be touched by the material universe or the Warp. You have to use a ritual just to put a name on it.'
Ramesses held the soul circuit. It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to just snatch it, but this creation was a bit strange. You couldn't touch it without establishing a Warp-connection.
In layman's terms, this ritual was constructed by the Iron Warriors to add a signature to this soul circuit, so that Perturabo could touch it and receive it. The rest was just simple, common sacrificial methods.
Fortunately, he had been quick enough to change the name directly, and had successfully, through the Iron Warriors' ritual, obtained the right to touch the soul circuit for free, without spending a single coin of his own.
The rift quickly shrank, but the Pain-Seer, who looked as if he had seen a ghost, still wore a look of utter bewilderment.
An intention, accompanied by the still-unfinished ritual, descended upon his body.
"Lord Perturabo!" he cried out in joy, his voice filled with disbelief. "Is it you?"
Ramesses quickly closed the Warp rift, casually pointed at a few daemons, confirmed that the Warp-creatures couldn't reach out, and then immediately erased the information of the four of them. He just didn't change his phone number.
He scratched his head in confusion.
What is Perturabo on? Why is he even answering his sons' spam calls?
CRACK!
Arthur's figure flickered out of existence and reappeared. His blade cut through the air, directly severing the Pain-Seer's head. The head rolled on the ground, its eyes still filled with a lingering fanaticism and astonishment.
The surrounding Dreadwing also quickly closed in. Taking advantage of the Iron Warriors' moment of stunned silence, they began the final cleanup.
"Is it dealt with?" Arthur asked, sheathing his sword and scanning the battlefield.
"Got it. It will take some time to analyze it later," Ramesses nodded, his hand tightly gripping the magnificent soul circuit, a thoughtful light in his eyes.
"Then let's withdraw," Arthur said, looking at the Dark Angels. "Clean up the traces. Withdraw in three minutes."
His voice echoed in the communication channel. The Dark Angels immediately sprang into action, quickly and orderly beginning to clean the battlefield.
The notice from Romulus had already come through. He was now busy arranging the affairs of the various planets, still dizzy from the daily work. He had only provided some data support for the frontal battlefield. But Dantioch had pushed too fast. It was like spinning a top. He was beating Idriss like a child.
All his tactics were predicted, and there was a disparity in their forces. Now, it would be no more than five minutes before he was hung on a banner.
"?"
Inside the Iron Blood, the Primarch of the Iron Warriors, Perturabo, suddenly felt a connection from the depths of his soul.
His brow furrowed slightly, a hint of impatience in his eyes.
Since his ascension to daemonhood, although he had lost the ability to produce gene-seed, the Lord of Iron had established a deeper level of Warp-connection with his sons. This connection was like an invisible bond, establishing another layer of contact between him and his stupid sons.
However, this deeper perception did not change Perturabo's opinion of his sons. On the contrary, he felt they were even more stupid, dull, and even disgusting.
Because that's what they were!
If Dantioch were here, it would never be like this.
The moment he felt this connection, a feeling of annoyance rose in Perturabo's heart. His fingers unconsciously tapped on the arm of his throne, making a dull sound.
Those exiled fools, do they not have even a shred of self-awareness?
Can't they even perform as well as Forrix?
But the Lord of Iron did not refuse the connection.
Recently, things in the Warp had been going smoothly. Many Chaos warbands had come to him seeking a trade. It was said that there was a problem with Vashtorr's production. That "god of machines" who valued contracts so much seemed to have run into a little trouble. He hadn't even been able to complete his recent orders.
This had made many Chaos warbands turn to Perturabo. And the reliance of these warbands on the war machines he provided would eventually be transformed into his power, allowing him to take another step in the direction of malefic artifice.
The Lord of Iron was in a good mood. He decided to see what his sons were up to, why they were contacting him in such large numbers.
"Lord Perturabo, your most loyal son has found an unprecedented furnace material for you. We wish to return to your command, to win even more for you."
The voice in the communication was filled with humility and pleading, as if praying for the mercy of a god.
Very well. Let me see what you can do.
Perturabo was intrigued. If they could really pique his interest, he didn't mind leading these stupid sons for a while.
His gaze pierced through the mist of the Warp, looking at the offering that had been presented.
Hmm, the ancient soul circuit of the Eldar. The creation that could allow those psychic Titans to operate without limit?
The Primarch's superhuman memory quickly found the origin of the offering. A smile appeared on his lips.
Very well. I am indeed a bit interested.
He then perceived the ritual. Complex Chaos runes began to flash around him in the form of data.
He was born with knowledge, possessing a talent that far surpassed that of his Primarch brothers. Even in the study of Chaos, it was no exception.
Lorgar was still searching for his god, indulging in his heresies.
His four blind brothers had already given everything they had to the Chaos Gods, and had no future.
And I—
Perturabo thought with pride.
I have already found a path to further advancement, and am marching towards it.
He then received the result of the ritual.
Excellent. The name has been changed, and I don't even know who changed it.
Perturabo's iron face visibly grew cold.
He knew it. These stupid fools couldn't do anything right.
But he was still patient, preparing to see what his sons were really up to.
SQUELCH!
This was the perspective of the Pain-Seer, his head being severed by an invisible blade.
BOOM!
This was the perspective of an Iron Oath squad being surrounded and killed by red and black Dark Angel Dreadwing.
Something's wrong...
Although Perturabo couldn't be bothered to pay attention to Imperial affairs anymore, it wasn't as if he didn't pay attention to the Chapters of his Primarch brothers and plan for their handling. Although he had no interest in doing so, it didn't stop him from thinking about it.
At the very least, he still knew what color the Dark Angels were now.
Perturabo quickly traced the memories of his sons.
VMMM—
This was the perspective of being shattered by the shockwave of an Ordinatus Majoris without even noticing it.
"?"
Perturabo's face was filled with confusion.
Did these idiots Warp-travel to the 30k era?
He then denied this speculation. Such a stable connection meant that their time was synchronized. Although the time in the Warp was chaotic, the time of an individual would not be. At the very least, Perturabo believed that he should be in the 40k era.
A desire for exploration began to rise in his heart.
Perturabo looked at his still-surviving sons, playing with a furnace that imprisoned a Greater Daemon of Chaos Undivided in his hand.
Let me see what you fools are really up to.
"Who is that?! Who is that?!"
Idriss was going crazy at the command table, his hands slamming on the surface, sending the data-slates and tactical maps flying. His eyes were bloodshot, his face twisted, like a beast trapped in a cage.
His fleet had been completely wiped out. His offering had been intercepted.
And now, his warband would not be spared.
All predicted...
All predicted!
Are you an Iron Warrior or am I an Iron Warrior?!
Where is the ferocity of the Imperial Fists? Where is the fearlessness of the Imperial Fists?
You should have come at me like a relentless heavy fist, and then I would have responded in the way of the Iron Warriors, to prove that the sons of Perturabo are far superior to you.
Not like a meat-grinder, advancing steadily, like a slowly approaching hydraulic machine, slowly and surely grinding me to pieces.
Like an Iron Warrior!
Like Dantioch.
"Dantioch. It must be Dantioch!" Idriss muttered, repeating the name as if in a trance. His voice was low and hoarse, as if a roar squeezed from the depths of his throat.
He would never forget this guy.
The failure of the Battle of Schadvermund... fine, he was still alive. He was still reflecting. He could become better.
The Primarch said he was not as good as Dantioch... fine, he could learn. He could become like Dantioch.
He had found every record of Dantioch he could find. He had studied the dead man like a madman.
He wanted to become more like Dantioch.
But why should I play the role of a dead man?
Idriss was still changing, and Dantioabo was already dead!
He wanted to stand before his Primarch and tell him, I have done it! I have surpassed what Dantioch failed to do!
But had he really died?
Idriss held his head in his hands, his fingers digging deep into his hair, as if to tear his own scalp off. His eyes were fixed on the battle report, the light in them gradually fading.
"No... impossible... this is impossible..."
His voice trembled, with an undisguised fear and despair. The lights in the command room flickered, illuminating his pale face, making it look particularly hideous.
Idriss's mind kept replaying the tactical details. Every step was like the work of Dantioch, every decision was so precise it was suffocating.
He could list the heavy redeployments, the details, like the back of his hand. But why couldn't he counter it?
Why couldn't he counter it!
After so many years, the nightmarish memory was awakened again and had come to him in the flesh.
His breathing became rapid, his chest heaving, as if a giant rock were pressing on his heart, making it difficult for him to breathe.
The Siege of Schadvermund...
Attacker Idriss: 51st Fleet, Iron Warriors 13th Grand Company, 10,000 Astartes plus a Titan Legion.
Defender Dantioch: 30 Astartes squads and a mortal auxiliary army.
Duration: 366 days.
He had not won.
The Siege of the Iron Oath Fortress...
Attacker Dantioch: Black Templars, Crimson Fists, Executioners, 4,000 Astartes with Ordinatus Majoris support, scattered Dark Angels and Eldar Harlequins.
Defender Idriss: 2,000 Iron Warriors and a Titan Legion.
Duration: 13 hours.
He had not held!
He had lost so completely, without any ability to fight back.
And he had been commanding the Imperial Fists!
An endless sense of humiliation surged in Idriss's heart, as if an invisible blade were cutting his self-esteem.
He could not accept losing to Dantioch. He could not accept losing to the Imperial Fists. He could not accept both of these things happening at the same time!
Reality was the most merciless slap, hitting him hard in the face, proving one thing with cold, hard facts—
After ten thousand years, you are still not as good as him.
And all of this was under the watch of his Primarch.
Yes, under the watch of Lord Perturabo.
"If Dantioch were here, he wouldn't ask such a stupid question! None of you are as good as him!"
Idriss lowered his head, feeling the connection from his soul. The reprimands from Perturabo in the past began to be dredged up from his memory. Those cold and sharp words, like venomous snakes, wrapped around his heart, suffocating him.
"..."
The Primarch did not speak, but Idriss could feel his gaze.
Watching his failure!
An indescribable emotion spread in his heart. Idriss could clearly feel that his Primarch was reading his thoughts, reviewing the entire process. The feeling of being completely seen through made him feel as if he had fallen into an ice cave.
"NO!!!"
Idriss's face became blank, his eyes filled with disbelief and despair.
It shouldn't be like this! The script wasn't written like this!
I have improved for ten thousand years! How can I be weaker than Dantioch?
I have embraced the blessings of the Empyrean, struggled in the vortex of Chaos for countless years! How can I be weak?
His blank face visibly became crazed. His eyes were bloodshot, the corners of his mouth twisted into a savage smile.
"No, I haven't lost yet! I haven't lost yet!" He grabbed the staff officer at his side, who had already been beaten into a state of incomprehension by the heavy blows. The staff officer's body was limp, like a soulless shell. Especially when the Primarch's gaze had descended, the staff officer and the personal guards had become like dead men, lifeless.
"We haven't lost!" Idriss roared, his voice echoing on the empty battlefield, filled with a hysterical madness. "Get your weapons! We'll find him! We'll kill him!"
After ten thousand years of training, with the blessings of the Chaos Gods, he would surely be able to kill that damned guy, to prove in front of his Primarch that he was far superior to Dantioch.
"Yes... oh yes... we'll kill him."
The staff officer, like a wooden puppet, blindly grabbed his weapon and mechanically followed Idriss's steps. His eyes were empty, his movements stiff, like a manipulated puppet. The personal guards were the same, like soulless puppets, silently following behind Idriss, marching towards an unknown fate.
In the rain, their figures looked exceptionally lonely and mad, like a group of souls abandoned by fate, stubbornly chasing a "revenge" that was doomed to fail.
"Dantioch!"
The remaining Iron Warriors, having lost their command, had completely fallen into chaos. And Idriss, fearlessly, with his personal guard, charged towards the core of the sons of Dorn.
Kill him!
As long as I kill him, I can prove that I am the best Iron Warrior.
THUMP!
The personal guards fell one by one, their bodies slamming heavily on the ground, splashing mud. The staff officer, in his charge, was also accurately hit in the head by a bolter round. Blood and brains splattered, dyeing the surrounding rain red.
BOOM!
Another bolter round hit Idriss's body. His armor let out a dull thud, and blood seeped from the crack. However, what flowed out was not crimson blood, but a black, viscous machine oil, exuding a pungent, metallic smell.
Drizzle...
The heavy rain of the sky poured down, surging through the breach in the fortress like a waterfall. The rain gathered into streams on the ground.
Idriss stood in the rain, his gaze piercing through the layers of the rain screen, locking onto the hazy figure.
With just a glance, he had found his target.
"I see you! I've found you!" Idriss growled, his voice hoarse in the rain. He strode forward, braving the rain of bolter fire, and charged like an angry beast. It seemed that even his Primarch was moved by his persistence. The steel all avoided his armor, circling his body, as if to make way for him to a path of victory.
"Dantioch! Dantioch!"
His voice echoed in the rain, filled with an endless anger and killing intent.
A tall Space Marine suddenly blocked his vision. A crimson iron fist swayed in the rain, exceptionally dazzling. He was charging a squad of fast-bred troops, blocking the path between Idriss and Dantioch.
"Die!"
Idriss was furious, his eyes red. He swung the power maul in his hand and slammed it down on the Space Marine. His movement was as swift as thunder, the power maul cutting through the air, letting out a sharp whistle.
WHOOSH—
The power maul fell!
BOOM!
The ground, due to the immense impact, splashed countless dust and smoke in the rain, mud splattering everywhere.
As a Warsmith, the blessings Idriss had received were unparalleled, making his strength far greater than when he still had all four of his limbs ten thousand years ago. Combined with the power maul he had meticulously crafted, he had an unparalleled penetrating power on the battlefield.
An ordinary Astartes, facing him, would be crushed on the spot!
However, the steel was slowing down.
Slower and slower, and finally, it stopped.
The crimson iron fist had steadily caught the power maul, and had only been pushed back a few meters, leaving two deep gouges in the ground.
First Captain Pedro Kantor of the Crimson Fists, feeling the pressure transmitted from his arm, finally realized what he had done. A cold sweat immediately broke out. He cursed himself for not being vigilant enough, for losing his reverence, and at the same time, he couldn't help but marvel at the powerful defense of the Crimson Fist.
'As expected of the relic passed down by Lord Ramesses.'
He thought to himself, a cold light in his eyes. He immediately leaned in close to this enemy who had suddenly ambushed him, and who now seemed to be frozen for some reason.
The red fist was still like an iron clamp, imprisoning the opponent's weapon. Pedro's left arm, like an eagle's claw, accurately grabbed the exposed joint of the enemy's right pauldron.
The servo-motors spun at high speed, letting out a low hum. Relying on his own extraordinary height, he forcibly pulled the enemy up, as if lifting a powerless prey.
Taking advantage of the enemy's loss of balance, he took a step forward, his right fist shooting out like a cannonball.
The power fist erupted with a crushing destructive power. The blessed armor shattered like paper under his fist. Metal parts and flesh mixed, splattering everywhere. The pungent smell of machine oil and blood filled the air.
A quick and decisive battle!
Pedro's gaze was as sharp as a blade. Seeing Idriss's figure flying backwards, he released his left hand, which was aching from the impact, and his whole body shot forward like an arrow.
Another punch!
BOOM!!!
This punch solidly hit Idriss's chest. The dull impact, accompanied by the splashing dust, echoed on the battlefield. Idriss's figure disappeared in a flash, leaving only a deep furrow in the ground, as if it had been torn by the claws of a behemoth.
"Impossible... how is this possible?"
Idriss's body was twisted and deformed. He swayed as he stood up, his face filled with disbelief. His armor was in tatters, black blood seeping from the cracks and dripping on the ground, dyeing the just-washed earth black.
And before he could adapt to this cruel reality, the giant of the red fist had descended upon him like a god of death.
Unstoppable, unbeatable!
Idriss's pupils suddenly contracted. His body stiffened for a moment, and then a blank expression appeared on his face, as if he had just woken from a nightmare.
'How could this be? How could...'
His thoughts were not yet finished when the crimson iron fist came at him again, with an aura of destruction.
And this time—
It was aimed at his head!
CRACK!
The skull exploded like a watermelon. Blood and brains splattered, dyeing Pedro's fist and tabard red.
"?"
Pedro, stained with black machine oil, lowered his head slightly and looked at his red fist in confusion.
The red flame on his fist was burning incessantly. The patterns on it began to change, becoming sharper and harder, in response to the victory in this battle.
Behind him, the company banner billowed without a wind. Flames spread from the edges, gradually consuming the fabric of the banner. In the envious gazes of the other sons of Dorn, the patterns and metal structure of the banner began to change. New battle honors were inscribed upon it, recording the most important result of this battle.
"My Lord."
Pedro looked at Dantioch, who had approached, the confusion in his eyes still lingering. He had never imagined that a pie could fall from the sky.
"Finish the cleanup on the upper levels of the fortress."
His gaze lingered for a moment on the breach leading to the lower fortress. Dantioch gave his successor an encouraging smile. "And then enjoy your victory!"
The rain was still pouring. Thick smoke billowed up, obscuring half the sky.
The figures of the Dark Angels were hazy in the rain, like gods of death emerging from the silence, cold and ruthless.
Arthur withdrew his gaze and turned to walk towards the evacuation point. "Let's go."
There was no need for them to do the cleanup work.
The Dark Angels followed close behind, quickly disappearing into the smoke of the battlefield.
In the depths of the fortress, on the battlefield where nothing was left, only the unsated killing intent lingered for a long time.
"..."
In the distant Warp, the Primarch in the Iron Blood suddenly opened his eyes.
There was no emotion in those pupils.
As the furnace shattered, the hot metal liquid flowed from between his fingers and splashed on the ground, making a hissing sound.
"Heh heh heh."
Perturabo revealed a smile of relief.
Useless!