CR0SSED THE 100 CHAPTER MARK!! HELL YEAH!!
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Chapter 100: The Iron Within
The primitive metallurgy of Olympia's forges sang its crude hymnal as Perturabo stepped back from his latest creation, disgust etching lines across his patrician features.
The siege engine's design was flawless; his transhuman intellect had ensured that, yet the very perfection of its destructive capability filled him with a bone-deep weariness that no mortal could comprehend.
"Perturabo, don't be so hard on yourself."
The girl's voice broke through the thunderous cacophony of his thoughts.
Calliphone pressed herself against his armored forearm, her mortal frame barely reaching the ceramite-clad limb.
Such was the disparity between gene-forged demigod and baseline human that even this simple gesture reminded him of the gulf that separated him from those he protected.
Her gentleness briefly quenched the fires of his frustration, though the bitter ash of disappointment remained.
Why must every creation of his hands be bent toward war? Why could these mortals not see beyond the implements of destruction to the beauty he might craft in peacetime?
"A good design." The voice that interrupted his brooding carried the authority of rulership, though to Perturabo's enhanced senses it remained painfully, achingly human.
Dammekos approached, his silk robes whispering against stone floors worn smooth by generations of lesser kings.
The laurel wreath upon his brow, a pretension to ancient glory, caught the forge-light and transformed it into something almost noble.
Dammekos of Olympia, who had found a lost child gazing upon the Eye of Terror and raised him as a son.
Who had seen the potential for greatness in a boy drawn to that blasphemous wound in reality's fabric and chosen nurture over fear.
The human lord had no conception of what he had truly discovered that day, a Primarch, one of twenty gene-sons of the Emperor of Mankind, cast across the galaxy by the malice of Chaos itself.
The memories cascaded through Perturabo's eidetic mind with painful clarity. That younger self, compelled by visions only he could perceive, was climbing treacherous cliffs to reach toward an abomination that promised knowledge at the price of sanity.
Dammekos had saved him from that fate, though the visions had never truly ceased their whispering.
In the years since, Dammekos had proven himself more than a mere opportunist.
When Perturabo's gifts had manifested, the intuitive understanding of engineering principles that allowed him to dissect any mechanism with a glance, the strategic acumen that could read a man's character as easily as architectural blueprints, the philosophical depth that sought meaning in mathematics and logic, the human lord had nurtured rather than exploited.
Under Perturabo's guidance, the city-states of Olympia had fallen one by one, not to brute conquest but to the inexorable advance of superior strategy and technology.
Dammekos had become more than king; he had become planetary governor, and through it all, he had prepared to pass his throne to the foundling who had made it all possible.
"It's just a useless defective product," Perturabo replied, his tone carefully modulated to convey indifference.
The lie came easily, too easily. The design was magnificent, its efficiency elegant in its lethal simplicity, but acknowledging such would only encourage more requests for instruments of war.
Dammekos studied his adopted son with the shrewd gaze that had first recognized potential in a strange child.
"Some ancient biochemical monsters are remaining in the Eastern Grand Canyon. Soldiers need a complete set of new equipment to fight inside."
The human lord's words carried weight beyond their surface meaning. Here was purpose, necessity, the protection of innocent lives.
Not the aggrandizement of conquest but the shield raised against a genuine threat.
"No one else has the talent to design it; only you can, Perturabo. Are you willing to take on this task?"
Perturabo met his adoptive father's gaze, and for a moment, the weariness threatened to overwhelm even his transhuman constitution.
Why must it always be war? Why could they not task him with raising monuments to human achievement, crafting wonders that would inspire rather than destroy, building bridges between worlds rather than siege engines to break them?
But beneath the exhaustion lay something deeper, more troubling, a spark of excitement at the challenge, a hunger to test his designs against genuine opposition.
The contradiction gnawed at him like acid, the terrible suspicion that perhaps he was truly meant for nothing but war.
"I will come up with a complete set of new equipment," he said finally, the words emerging like a verdict of doom.
As Perturabo strode from the forge, his enhanced hearing caught the whispered conversation between father and daughter.
"See, daughter, Perturabo doesn't like building these civilian things; he prefers war." Dammekos' voice carried the certainty of years of observation.
"He is destined to be the Human Lord of Olympia. He will rule the entire world and lead humanity into space."
"Really?" Calliphone's doubt was palpable even to mortal senses. "But I feel like he's not happy!"
Dammekos refuted immediately, as if what he believed was the truth.
"He's not unhappy; he's just thinking about how to build new equipment. Have you ever seen him complain when building weapons?"
"No, he only complains when building structures unrelated to war. Doesn't that prove the point?"
The words struck Perturabo like bolt rounds to the chest.
Was this truly how they saw him?
Not as a being capable of creation and beauty, but as a weapon-smith who found joy only in crafting death?
The assessment was not entirely wrong, therein lay its cruelest edge.
Days passed in feverish creation.
Perturabo's workshops became temples to focused genius as he crafted armor systems that could resist the biochemical horrors of the Eastern Grand Canyon, weapons that could pierce their aberrant hides, and sensor arrays that could track their movements through toxic fog.
When the work was complete, the equipment performed flawlessly, allowing Olympian soldiers to cleanse the canyon of its monstrous inhabitants with minimal casualties.
"You are truly perfect, Perturabo. You are the best." Dammekos' praise was genuine, his affection unmistakable.
In that moment, surrounded by the acclaim of those he had saved, Perturabo allowed himself to smile.
The expression felt foreign on his features, as though his face had forgotten the shape of happiness.
But when Calliphone saw that smile, her own uncertainty melted away.
"Maybe Perturabo really likes war," she murmured, and perhaps she was right.
…..
Some time passed until the inevitable came.
The arrival of the Imperial fleet shattered Olympia's isolation like a hammer blow.
Custodian Guards in auramite armor descended from the void, their presence transforming the familiar palace halls into something charged with significance.
These were the Legio Custodes, the Ten Thousand, gene-crafted guardians whose very existence spoke of powers beyond mortal comprehension.
"You are the son of the Master of Mankind, lost to this planet for some reason. We are ordered to find you." The Custodian's words were carefully neutral, but their import crashed over Perturabo like a tidal wave.
Here at last was the truth he had always sensed but never dared voice: he was not of Olympia, not truly of any mortal world.
The decision came with surprising ease.
Years of feeling like an outsider, of possessing knowledge and capabilities that no mortal could share, of gazing upon the Eye of Terror and seeing truths that others could not perceive, all of it crystallized into a moment of perfect clarity.
He would go.
But as preparations began, as Dammekos and Calliphone gathered gifts and forced smiles to mask their pain, a terrible realization crept into Perturabo's enhanced mind.
Their reactions, measured against his expectations, seemed insufficient.
Where was the desperate pleading to remain?
Where were the tears, the protestations that they could not bear to lose him?
Instead, he saw only acceptance tinged with resignation. They loved him; he could not doubt that, but they were letting him go with a composure that felt like dismissal.
Had they always seen him as temporary?
Had they been waiting for this moment, knowing that their foundling son would one day return to whatever realm had spawned him?
(T/N: - By Emperor's true name, He needs to talk.)
"So, they really just saw me as a tool?" The thought formed like a toxin in his mind, spreading its poison through every memory of kindness received.
Looking at his smiling adoptive father and sister, Perturabo felt something precious and fragile crack within his transhuman heart.
He had thought these people would fight to keep him, would demonstrate through desperation the depth of their attachment.
Instead, they smiled and wished him well, as though releasing a valued servant to better employment rather than losing a beloved son and brother.
The interpretation was unfair. Perturabo knew this even as the thought formed.
Dammeks and Calliphone were sacrificing their own desires for his perceived good, demonstrating the highest form of love through their willingness to let him go.
But fairness held no power against the brutal arithmetic of a heart that measured affection in selfish terms, that needed to be fought for to feel valued.
Perturabo followed the Custodians to their transport, never looking back at the world that had raised him.
In the depths of space, he found himself reunited with another like himself, Mortarion, the Death Lord of Barbarus, pale and gaunt, where Perturabo was broad and iron-grey.
Four Primarchs came to greet the returning sons: Sanguinius with his angel's wings and radiant presence, Guilliman whose strategic mind rivaled Perturabo's own, Dorn the Imperial Fist whose fortifications were legends even here, and Konrad Curze whose midnight-blue armor seemed to drink in light itself.
"My name is Mortarion." The Death Lord's excitement was almost childlike, his enthusiasm for this reunion touching in its transparency.
After witnessing the Imperium's glory, he had already begun crafting plans for Barbarus's integration.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mortarion. I am Sanguinius." The Angel stepped forward with arms extended, offering the embrace of brotherhood.
His wings caught the deck lighting and transformed it into something ethereal, beautiful.
"Your wings look just like an angel's," Mortarion replied after a moment's hesitation, his voice soft with wonder.
"Many people have said that," Sanguinius smiled, the expression lighting his perfect features with warmth.
One by one, the Primarchs introduced themselves to Mortarion with genuine enthusiasm. Guilliman spoke of integration protocols and supply lines.
Dorn discussed defensive strategies and fleet dispositions.
Even Curze managed something approaching cordiality, though shadows seemed to gather around his words.
Then came Perturabo's turn, and the dynamic shifted subtly but unmistakably.
"My name is Perturabo." His tone was carefully neutral as he addressed Sanguinius. "I don't like overly intimate gestures."
"It's alright. No matter what, you are my brother." Sanguinius extended his hand instead of arms, offering a handshake with genuine warmth in his expression.
Yet something had changed, a subtle cooling, a recognition that this brother required different handling.
Dorn, Guilliman, and Curze followed suit, their greetings polite but reserved. They had read the signals, understood that Perturabo was not like Mortarion, not eager for easy camaraderie.
In their courtesy, they created the very distance they sought to avoid.
Perturabo felt the distinction keenly.
Where Mortarion had received embraces and enthusiasm, he garnered respectful handshakes and measured words.
The very consideration shown him felt like rejection; their care to avoid offense reading as evidence that they found him fundamentally offensive.
(T/N: This is so childish, I can't help but laugh.)
He maintained his expression of indifference, giving no sign of the turmoil beneath. This, too, was a skill learned on Olympia, the ability to show nothing while feeling everything.
"Number Four, Number Fourteen." The Emperor's voice cut through all lesser concerns like a blade through silk.
He approached, surrounded by his golden guardians, and upon his shoulder perched a creature that defied all expectation, a raven whose dark eyes held intelligence that seemed almost human.
The Raven's gaze swept over the assembled Primarchs, lingering on Perturabo with what seemed like calculation.
Some fragment of ancient memory stirred at the sight, legends of Terran folklore, perhaps, or genetic echoes of humanity's distant past.
Whatever the case, this was no ordinary creature.
The Emperor himself was everything the legends claimed and more.
Power radiated from his presence like heat from a forge, and when he spoke, reality itself seemed to listen.
This was the gene-father, the creator whose vision had shaped twenty demigod sons from raw genetic material and cast them across the galaxy to forge an empire worthy of humanity's potential.
"I am the Emperor of Terra and all humanity, and I am your father." The words carried weight beyond their simple meaning, binding obligation and purpose into syllables.
"I am greatly pleased that you have returned."
"I have already learned of the things you have done. You have saved those worlds and unified them. You have done very well. Are you willing to pledge allegiance to me, and are you willing to serve humanity with me?"
Here was recognition at last, acknowledgement of achievements, praise for victories won through strategic brilliance and technological superiority.
The Emperor had studied their records, understood their value. Unlike Dammekos and Calliphone, he would not let them go with smiles and resignation.
"I ask for nothing else. I swear, I will be eternally loyal and serve you." Perturabo knelt with genuine reverence, the words flowing from some deep well of need.
Here was a purpose worthy of his gifts, a father whose vision matched his own potential.
"Me too," Mortarion added, though his words carried less weight for their brevity.
"Rise, my sons." The Emperor's hands upon their shoulders felt like a benediction, power recognizing power.
"The path ahead will be difficult, but I hope you will not forget today's oath."
"Absolutely not," Perturabo replied, meaning it with every fiber of his transhuman being.
"Me too," Mortarion nodded repeatedly.
The Raven's mental voice carried what sounded suspiciously like gentle mockery
"Me too, me too, Mortarion, are you Groot or what?"
"Let me introduce him. This is Lord Raven, he represents another ruler of the Imperium." The Emperor gestured to his shoulder-perched companion. "He represents one head of the Imperial Aquila."
"It's a pleasure to meet you both, Fourteenth and Fourth." The Raven's voice was casual, almost irreverent, a stark contrast to the formal grandeur surrounding them.
"You just need to know your Uncle Raven is very kind. As long as you have delicious fries and ketchup, you can seek his help."
Mortarion and Perturabo exchanged glances, their transhuman minds struggling to process this final impossibility.
A raven that spoke, that claimed partnership with the Master of Mankind, that requested fried potatoes as payment for counsel.
After everything they had witnessed, the vast fleets, the golden warriors, the revelation of their true parentage, this somehow struck them as the most surreal detail of all.
Yet as they offered their greetings to this most unusual partner of the Emperor, both Primarchs felt the same stirring sensation.
They had come home at last, to a family stranger and more wondrous than anything Olympia or Barbarus could have imagined.
Whatever trials lay ahead, whatever conflicts might arise between brothers or with the greater galaxy beyond, they would face them as part of something larger than themselves.
The Great Crusade awaited, and with it, the chance to prove themselves worthy of the trust their father had placed in them.
For Perturabo, it represented the ultimate validation, a stage vast enough for his ambitions, complex enough to challenge his intellect, and violent enough to satisfy the hunger for war that he could no longer deny lay at the core of his being.
The iron within had found its true forge at last.
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