Chapter 353: Iron Rusts
His powerful body was losing vitality, the resonance of his soul fading.
The power that belonged to him was draining away.
Perturabo's eyes bulged with rage.
Romulus released his grip.
The massive body lost all strength, sliding towards the wall, then gradually disintegrating into fluid.
As he lost everything, Perturabo felt his consciousness break free from the constraints of his body.
The rumble of naval guns reached him; it was the sound of the Eternal Crusader. Perturabo knew it intimately.
In the few minutes he had lost his authority, this Gloriana-class battleship belonging to the sons of Dorn had torn through the blockade of countless suicide ships and begun to chase down its nemesis.
Lances gradually overloaded void shields, macro-cannons tore apart armor that no longer self-repaired. The Iron Blood, scarred and battered, fled in disgrace amidst the escort of countless warships.
He heard Forrix's shouts, heard the bridge transferring command.
He wanted to reprimand these sons who fled before the sons of Dorn, but he couldn't open his mouth.
He saw familiar figures.
Perturabo slowly turned around.
They surrounded him in a circle.
Barabas Dantioch, Arnor, Narek, Cazzacus, Quinn Milossa, Orrick Saxton, Kyr Vhalen... and every Iron Warrior whose name Perturabo could call out in an instant.
They held the heads of traitors—Kroeger's, and those of the Iron Warriors who participated in the boarding action.
Dripping with blood.
There was indifference, hatred, confusion, and pity.
The Iron Warriors stood beside the Regent. Without the influence of blood ties, they firmly stood on the opposite side of their gene-father.
For something greater, far greater than Perturabo's wishful thinking.
They commanded fleets, directed ground forces, relying on the experience gained from the Iron Lord and a mindset that never submitted to him, pushing their gene-father into a corner.
The fact was, the moment Perturabo actively jumped onto the Dawnlight, it represented one group of Iron Warriors losing to another group of Iron Warriors.
One side led by him, the other by Romulus.
This insult drove him into a frenzy, twisting his face.
"Perturabo."
A flash of light obscured his vision, dispelling everything that made Perturabo furious.
Perturabo, his expression twisted, looked up and saw the face of the shining man directly.
"Emperor!"
He shouted in fear and curiosity.
His mind went blank.
This existence pressed on him like a collapsing mountain.
The golden light gradually faded, and a man's face, previously hidden by his great radiance, became clear.
Face to face, so close, Perturabo clearly saw endless power and exhaustion in his face and body.
A man, powerful and mighty as a god, yet looking numb from working for all mankind, stood before him at this moment.
He revealed a smile.
His smile was broad and boundless, as if reflecting everything.
"I..."
Perturabo's lips quivered.
The pressure his father brought to his heart of iron, inside and out, was immense.
Even the vortex moving stars at the center of the galaxy was insignificant compared to it. At this moment, Perturabo's deepest hidden thoughts were exposed in the golden light. Everything about him, all of him, was as easy to read as words on paper.
He looked up at the man, that golden and cold sun, and knelt humbly.
Until this moment, he hadn't realized it.
"Father."
Kneeling, Perturabo still looked larger than ordinary people.
But he still knelt, just like ten thousand years ago, kneeling to his father on the high mountain out of admiration, swearing allegiance.
"I am the Emperor of Terra, and the Emperor of Mankind," the Emperor said, his voice becoming resonant, echoing clearly in Perturabo's ears.
"You are Perturabo, my Lord of Iron."
"I am, I am!" Perturabo said hurriedly.
"You are no longer."
The Emperor placed a hand on his shoulder.
Perturabo wept.
The Emperor looked at him with compassion, deep sadness flowing in his eyes.
He also cherished this hard-won peace.
The Emperor said:
"When I first saw you, you were as brave and fearless in my eyes as I intentionally designed."
The Emperor said:
"I saw an unyielding will, an unwavering determination. I realized you would not give up, you would grow to overcome any difficulty. Those tedious tasks were a challenge you had to overcome to reach honor, and you would not shirk them."
The Emperor said:
"I saw these qualities in you. As a father, I gave you tasks far more difficult than most of your brothers, not because I saw no value in you, but on the contrary, I believed no one but you could do them."
The Emperor said:
"I had many tasks, tasks that required a son who could never tire, never yield, never have feelings to complete. I gave them to you. I thought you were like me, and you would be my Lord of Iron—"
"But you are not."
The Emperor's expression was so sad.
"I shouldn't have treated you with the standards I apply to myself. I made you waste your soldiers to prove something that didn't need proving, and then become angry when no one noticed and praised your self-sacrifice, and then pour that anger onto those around you."
An apology ten thousand years late, even needing to borrow the power of others to express.
Undoubtedly, it was too late.
"It's too late, father."
Perturabo covered his face and wept, uncertain bitterness swallowing him.
The Emperor overestimated his son. Perturabo was not as the Emperor expected.
Yes, it was too late.
"Then rise, my child."
The sadness in the Emperor's expression was hidden again, becoming cold, as if he had made some determination.
So much so that Perturabo doubted if he had ever seen this expression on him.
"Forward, Perturabo."
The Emperor spoke, pointing forward.
"Forward."
"Will I die?"
Perturabo looked at the boundless golden light.
At this moment, he clearly realized what those four 'brothers' represented.
Even the Emperor couldn't influence their choices. As powerful as the Emperor was, he could only hope for their actions now.
"Everything will pay the price for its actions."
The Emperor looked at Perturabo, then pointed into the distance, including those four twisted and powerful existences, his voice certain.
"You, me, and them."
"As a father, I can accept you, but as a human, I cannot forgive you."
The Emperor said so, opening his arms to Perturabo.
Finally, he felt this acceptance without vigilance. Love emanated from the Emperor, shrouding the son He had found. Perturabo bathed in it, feeling a true sense of belonging again after ten thousand years.
Perturabo cheered unabashedly, obeyed the Emperor's words, and moved forward.
Too ironic.
He once couldn't wait to run to his father, couldn't wait to get rid of the mundane and the mediocre, willing to play the role he resisted for this.
But deep down he still craved love, and mortals, try as they might, could not warm the heart of a demigod, let alone a father and brothers who had their own responsibilities and couldn't give their all.
Iron finally didn't get enough care and rusted in time.
"My lord."
Dantioch looked at the fine metal residue in his hand, casually shaking it off, and asked Romulus beside him.
"Please instruct."
Romulus put away the Maugetar Stone, glanced at Perturabo for the last time, and took a deep breath.
He couldn't relax yet. He had to be alert to the possibility of the Four Gods playing dirty at any moment.
He, they, had to win this battle completely.
A series of orders were transmitted from his mouth.
"Organize battleship formations, assist the Eternal Crusader in hunting down the Iron Blood, try best to sink it. Escort fleets lower orbit, conduct indiscriminate bombardment on all occupied areas. Advisors can take over ground defense command directly..."
"Yes!"
"Also notify all troops fighting on the periphery of the Eye of Terror that the Dawnbreaker Fleet has achieved victory."
Romulus paused suddenly, something hot rolling in his throat, finally turning into sparks falling into cold iron words.
"It is time to make our enemies pay."
He gripped his authority, turned.
Behind him, his cloak billowed like a burning battle flag, returning to his throne with him.
"Yes, my lord!"
Victory was decided.
On the ground, Arthur leaned on his sword, stopping his attention on his partner.
But he still looked at the sky where thick smoke clouds were pushed aside by continuous lance strikes.
His eyes revealed focus.
Their opponents could be speculated with the deepest and most evil thoughts, so it was not time to relax.
Vigilance.
Before truly grasping victory, no amount of vigilance is excessive.
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