Chapter 335: Regret. Nothing But Regret
Perturabo maintained strict control over his Warsmiths.
As the Antares Landing Zone and its surrounding anti-air defense sectors fell one by one, creating an opening for a rapid assault with local numerical superiority, the Iron Lord's heart rate remained steady. He continued to prepare for the projection of the sacrifices, viewing the situation with cold rationality.
"Maintain suppression. Drag them into the designated kill zones."
Even when the tide turned after months of effort, Perturabo showed no disappointment.
"Alternate cover. Reorganize existing forces around the Centaurus Bastion, now occupied by daemons."
When news arrived that the low-orbit fleet engagement had failed, that two Ramilies-class Starforts had been shattered by the fleet led by the Eternal Crusader, making it impossible to continue projecting sacrifices to the surface, the Iron Lord still observed the battlefield with indifference.
"..."
After Khârn's furious transmission was cut off by the sudden assault from the Eternal Crusader, silence congealed in the air of the Iron Blood's bridge, filled only by the hum of machinery.
His gaze lingered briefly on certain groups within the fleet, transmitting cold orders in the form of data.
The Warsmiths fell silent, fearing that any mistake would invite the Iron Lord's punishment. Yet Forrix could clearly feel his gene-father's emotions.
Perturabo was neither disappointed nor flying into a rage at this setback.
He adapted fluidly, his eyes locked on the constantly shifting tactical map, adjusting deployments, preparing for the next phase of his plan, as if everything happening now was within his calculations.
The Iron Lord enjoyed this game. He quantified the asymmetrical military strengths of both sides, exchanging them with the utmost precision.
This was his brilliance: decisive and fierce sieges, persistent and ruthless attrition. The current situation, forged by disparities on multiple fronts, was acceptable. As the commander, he only needed to persevere towards his goal.
Today's failure was not a painful defeat for him, but merely a link, a small part of a grand mechanism.
What else could he do? Decimate his legion halfway through the war?
Seeing the light fade from Forrix's eyes as he realized the Iron Lord no longer held expectations for them, Perturabo's lips curled into a cold smile.
Truth be told, he wanted to, but conditions did not permit it.
Servo-skulls fluttered around him with new data-slates, displaying the overall casualty ratios for each sector.
The exchange ratio for Astartes was roughly 5 to 1. Except for specific areas, the ratio in sectors garrisoned by Primarchs was far more exaggerated.
As for mortals, there was no need to pay close attention. In high-intensity zones, the ratio climbed into the dozens. It was unbearable to watch. They were basically fodder for sacrifices.
Even as sacrifices, the composition of this fodder was too complex.
Outside the window, the surface strike fleet seized the interval when the void shields were down to launch an orbital bombardment on the Pavo Bastion. The flashes of fire illuminated Perturabo's profile, yet no emotional change could be found on his face, hard as metal.
He was used to it.
He tilted his head slightly to avoid the brightest flash.
Then Perturabo ignored the Pavo Bastion, which had re-engaged its void shields in time after cooling down, successfully blocking the orbital bombardment. His gaze wandered among countless screens for a moment, landing on the images of the Primaris Space Marines.
A selection mechanism that couldn't be called scientific but was absolutely cruel, twenty-two surgical augmentations, new patterns of power armor, exaggeratedly sufficient supplies, and a combat will forged by ten thousand years of devotion to the Emperor.
They were taller, faster, stronger.
Perturabo watched a Black Templar Marshal bathed in blood.
His soul was so dazzlingly bright in the eyes of a warp entity.
"No Pity!"
Engulfed by the roar was a siege master who had survived a hundred battles. He whipped up a storm with his two-handed power axe, tearing a dozen men apart.
He noticed the approach of a warrior as powerful as himself. Before his arms could fully charge, his skull was shattered by the Marshal wielding a thunder hammer. Fragments of skull scattered slowly in his superhuman vision.
"No Remorse!"
Comrades fell around them under fire coverage, but they would not stop.
The Marshal strode forward, charging into the firing line in the trench, holding a burning pile of rubble amidst a hail of bullets, like driving a pin behind enemy lines to buy time for friendly forces to retreat.
"No Fear!"
As the rumbling armored convoy passed through the breach torn open by the Black Templars under artillery fire, these Astartes followed with their superb physical fitness, covering the rear of the main force.
When the daemons, known to the Imperium as the Neverborn, crawled out from the corpses and flesh of Chaos traitors, seeking this warrior's head for their master under the Blood God's roar.
The Marshal raised his hammer, bravely facing his next test.
That fanaticism, that firmness, that unwavering resolve.
And the unparalleled body capable of carrying this great spirit—even the Gods couldn't help but look down with desire.
"Heh."
Perturabo chuckled, involuntarily thinking of another brother known for his fanaticism.
In his opinion, compared to these contemporary Space Marines, the self-proclaimed firm faith of those Word Bearer zealots was bullshit.
This was enough. Whatever the outcome, it was acceptable. He hadn't counted on these wastes to win anyway.
Reducing the information to its essential conflict, it was nothing more than a contest of will to surpass Romulus, and to reclaim the souls of his sons.
Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself.
Perturabo felt his current mindset was quite good.
As Forrix thought, when you no longer hold expectations for certain things, you find you won't be angry about them either.
Commanding a bunch of warp-infused, possessed things that bragged about how cruel and great they were, but fell apart the moment Chaos blessings were cut off—
To fight against a group of warriors who had undergone rigorous physical and mental tests, commanded by an efficient leadership team, cooperating closely, and devoting themselves wholeheartedly to the battlefield?
Before, he didn't know the cost of running a household. Now, what could he complain about?
He couldn't say it was his own fault for slacking off in the warp, disbanding his troops, doing nothing but researching daemon engines and resurrecting his sister, and then deciding on a whim to gather troops for a struggle only to end up like this, could he?
No one told him the Imperium could play like this.
If he had known, he would have learned from Guilliman back then.
While processing battlefield data and confirming losses, Perturabo's mind wandered again.
That they could still maintain a superficial stalemate was thanks to his experience in grinding wars during the Great Crusade, making him resilient enough.
Now, Chaos forces were concentrated in the south. This unprecedented battle had attracted enough attention from the Blood God, but for some reason, He was not in a hurry to intervene personally.
The other three Gods were even more laid back, adopting a strategy of 'breakthrough at one point, follow up across the line.'
Don't ask me if I'm following up, just tell me if you've broken through yet?
After confirming the losses, Perturabo maneuvered the battle group, which, despite heavy losses, still rivaled the Dawnbreaker Fleet in numbers, to abandon the first offensive line and retreat, creating enough space for redeployment.
This was the largest battle group since the post-Heresy era, composed of three Gloriana-class battleships and thousands of warbands.
Here, differences and disputes had always existed.
He would use every combat means at his disposal to achieve maximum effect. Perturabo dared say he had always been forced to go against his nature, to communicate and coordinate with others, to satisfy various factions, to satisfy the masters behind his brothers.
But no matter how he coordinated, these guys would have their own ideas.
Looking at the Emperor's Children, who remained unmoved while their allies suffered, Perturabo rubbed his forehead.
Although unwilling to admit the failure of his decision-making, being in the company of such people, he felt somewhat regretful.
Completely unreliable.
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