Chapter 102: The Shattering of Iron
"You lost again." The Raven's pronouncement fell like the final toll of a funeral bell as it alighted before Perturabo with casual grace.
The words struck deeper than any blade could reach, carving through layers of constructed pride to wound the transhuman soul beneath.
Perturabo stared at the creature with the desperate intensity of a drowning man seeking salvation in the depths of black water.
"What methods did you use?" The question emerged through clenched teeth, each syllable said with barely contained fury.
"What about them saying they have a choice?"
The Raven gestured toward 9527, who had been attempting to execute a tactical withdrawal from the scene with all the stealth his augmented frame could muster.
The tech-priest's efforts at inconspicuous departure had been stopped by the unfortunate reality that servo-skulls and mechanical limbs were not optimally designed for subtle movement.
Realising that every eye upon the deck had focused upon his retreating form, 9527 settled back into his original position with mechanical precision.
His augmented features attempted to project harmless intent, a challenging proposition when one's face consisted mostly of optical sensors and vox-grille assemblies.
"I selected a timeline where he was bound to win," the Raven explained with the casual air of one discussing meteorological conditions.
"As for all the timelines where he failed, I simply discarded them."
The revelation struck Perturabo heavily.
His transhuman mind, capable of processing battlefield variables with superhuman speed, struggled to grasp such casual mastery over causality itself.
"Lord Raven, can you manipulate time?" The question emerged as barely more than a whisper, awe and horror warring for dominance in his voice.
"Yes." The single word was said with absolute certainty.
"This is cheating." Perturabo's accusation blazed forth with righteous fury, the kind of anger that could fuel crusades or topple empires.
"Cheating? Did I violate any rules of Gwent?" The Raven's counter-question possessed the merciless precision of a logic engine applying pure reasoning to emotional arguments.
Perturabo's rage faltered as his enhanced intellect reluctantly acknowledged the terrible truth.
The rules of the card game had been followed with absolute precision. No mechanical advantage had been employed, no false information provided, no deception practised in the traditional sense.
The contest had been conducted with perfect fairness, within a framework deliberately constructed to ensure his defeat.
The realisation only intensified his fury, transforming righteous anger into something darker and more corrosive.
'You're very angry,' the Raven observed, its mental voice resonating directly within Perturabo's consciousness with intimate precision. 'Do you feel that I fooled you?'
'Isn't that so?' Perturabo's mental roar carried enough force to shatter mortal minds. 'Aren't you fooling me?'
Reality twisted around them like molten glass reshaped by invisible hands.
The familiar deck of the Imperial flagship dissolved into something vast and incomprehensible, a stellar void that stretched beyond the boundaries of mortal perception.
Stars wheeled in impossible configurations while nebulae painted cosmic canvas with colours that had no names in any terrestrial language.
The Raven underwent its own transformation, expanding beyond the constraints of physical form until it loomed larger than solar systems.
Its dark eyes became twin voids that could have swallowed entire fleets, while its presence filled the conceptual space between galaxies.
Perturabo, reduced to a mote of consciousness floating in infinite darkness, felt the full weight of cosmic insignificance pressing down upon his transhuman pride.
"No, I just want to tell you that a Primarch is nothing in the vast and boundless universe. You should learn humility, learn to accept failure, Perturabo." The Raven's voice emerged from everywhere and nowhere, carrying truths that cut deeper than any physical weapon.
"The moment I saw you, I knew you were cursed by knowledge. Your eyes and mind can help you see the mysteries and trajectories of all things, and you presume to understand everything, which is why you feel that nothing has meaning."
Each word struck like precision munitions against carefully fortified positions.
Perturabo's mental defences, constructed over decades of careful emotional isolation, began to crumble under the assault of absolute understanding.
"Your heart is filled with a desire for others to acknowledge you, but you refuse to show it, because you are afraid that others will think it is a weakness. You want to be as strong as steel, so you repeatedly resist others and resist your own heart."
The anatomical dissection of his deepest fears left Perturabo speechless with rage and shame.
How dare this creature expose the vulnerabilities he had spent a lifetime concealing?
How dare it speak aloud the desperate hunger for recognition that he had buried beneath layers of aloof competence?
"I don't need anyone's preaching," he managed to snarl through the suffocating weight of mental manipulation.
"Are you such a coward that you don't even dare to listen to me?" The Raven's tone carried an edge of genuine sadness that somehow made its words even more devastating.
"I saw your past. Your adoptive father and adoptive sister have always tried to make you feel their love."
"But you were completely unaware of it, even thinking that they didn't love you, and responded to them with anger and coldness."
"They just wanted to use my talent." Perturabo's protest emerged with the desperate force of a drowning man's final breath. "They didn't love me at all."
"The ruler of Olympia abandoned his own biological son and chose to raise you as his heir. Those abandoned children had no complaints and even felt that it was the best choice for you to rule Olympia."
"Your adoptive sister cared about everything concerning you, constantly paying attention to your emotions, fearing that you would be unhappy and sad. Are these not love?"
The Raven's words reconstructed Perturabo's memories with ruthless precision, forcing him to witness his own willful blindness.
Dammekos had indeed made sacrifices, not merely political calculations, but genuine acts of paternal devotion.
Calliphone had watched his moods with the careful attention of one who genuinely cared about his well-being, not the calculating interest of a manipulator.
"You scorned their concern, resented their ulterior motives, but never thought of opening your heart to them and telling them your thoughts."
The accusation struck home with perfect accuracy.
In all his years on Olympia, Perturabo had never once attempted honest communication about his desires, his fears, his desperate need for validation.
Instead, he had constructed elaborate tests of their affection, then interpreted their inevitable failures as evidence of insincerity.
"That's not true." The words emerged as more plea than protest, his voice corroded by indescribable bitterness. "They just used me."
"They only wanted me to create destructive weapons, and they only wanted to know how to conquer enemies. They didn't care what I wanted at all."
"That was your choice." As the Raven willed it, scenes materialised in the cosmic void with crystalline clarity, moments from Perturabo's past rendered in perfect, merciless detail.
He saw himself painting landscapes with mathematical precision, creating beauty from pigment and calculation.
Around him, Calliphone and his companions praised his artistic vision with genuine admiration, their expressions bright with wonder at his creative gifts.
Yet in each memory, his own face remained clouded with melancholy, dissatisfied with their appreciation because it came too easily, meant too little in the grand calculus of his own set ambitions.
The scenes shifted to show his musical compositions, haunting melodies that spoke of longing and loss, performed for audiences who listened with attention.
Again, he was showered with praise and admiration freely; yet, his expression remained distant, unimpressed by the acclaim for achievements he deemed insufficient.
When he repaired the opera house, transforming crumbling architecture into something magnificent, the people of Olympia celebrated his vision.
When he tended the palace gardens, creating harmony from chaos through careful cultivation, his adoptive family marvelled at his gentle touch with growing things.
But in every instance, Perturabo appeared unmoved by their joy, as though their happiness meant nothing because it failed to match some impossible internal standard.
Only when designing weapons did his countenance brighten.
Only when receiving the worship of armies, the respect of officials, the fearful admiration of conquered enemies, did genuine satisfaction touch his features.
Over time, the pattern had become apparent to those who loved him.
If they wished to see him happy, they must focus their praise upon his military genius.
If they desired to avoid his brooding displeasure, they must celebrate his capacity for destruction above all else.
They had adapted to his needs, shaped themselves around his emotional requirements, because they genuinely cared about his well-being.
Their emphasis on his warmaking abilities had been an act of love, not exploitation.
"It's not like that."
Perturabo's denial rang hollow even to his own enhanced hearing, his anger now tainted with the bitter recognition of truth.
In this moment, suspended in cosmic vastness while confronting the wreckage of his self-deception, he wished for nothing more than a weapon in his hands, some tool of destruction with which he could lash out against the universe that had dared to expose his weakness.
The Raven's cosmic gaze remained fixed upon him patiently.
This deconstruction of Perturabo's psyche was a necessity, even if it was very agonising for his mind and soul.
The Lord of Iron's personality represented a fundamental threat to the Imperium's future; his prideful self-destruction would claim countless lives if left unchecked.
In the original timeline, Perturabo's bitterness had curdled into something monstrous, and his genius had been turned toward the service of Chaos through simple frustration with his own perceived inadequacies.
Such futures could not be allowed to happen.
"Perturabo, you must accept your imperfections, accept your weaknesses. True strong individuals are not without weaknesses; rather, they confront their weaknesses."
The Raven's words carried absolute authority, cosmic judgment rendered upon a single tortured soul.
"The myriad worlds are vast and boundless, with countless living beings. Many are stronger than you. Only by confronting your weaknesses can you possibly continue to progress. Only by opening your heart can you receive help from others."
As the final syllables faded, reality reasserted itself with jarring suddenness.
The cosmic void collapsed back into the familiar confines of the Imperial flagship, stars and nebulae condensing into deck plating and bulkhead walls.
Perturabo found himself seated exactly where he had been before the revelation began, though his body trembled with barely perceptible vibrations.
The physical manifestation of a transhuman psyche that has been pushed beyond its design tolerances.
The other Primarchs watched their brother with expressions of careful neutrality, recognising the signs of psychological upheaval.
Each had endured their moments of humbling recognition, their confrontations with uncomfortable truths about their nature and limitations.
Perturabo rose from his seat, his face grim as a funeral mask.
The weight of revelation pressed down upon his shoulders like the responsibility for entire worlds, which, in truth, it was.
"Fourteenth." The Raven's attention turned toward Mortarion with casual ease, as though the preceding cosmic intervention had been merely another routine administrative task. "Do you want to challenge him?"
Guilliman nudged his pale brother with an elbow, his expression encouraging despite the circumstances.
"Mortarion, you're a Primarch, don't fear."
"Yes, cheer up, you can do it," Sanguinius added.
However, his angelic features carried sympathy and mild mischievousness for both his brothers, the one who had been broken and the one now being asked to suffer similar treatment potentially.
Mortarion shook his head with admirable pragmatism. "Lord Raven can control timelines. This is a game I'm bound to lose, so I'll pass."
His refusal drew disappointed expressions from the assembled Primarchs, though none would admit it, seeing their brother fall against 9527 was indeed quite entertaining.
There were a few moments when they felt as if they were just another human.
Having witnessed Perturabo's destruction, Mortarion had learned the only lesson that mattered: some challenges were designed not to be won, but to be learned from.
The Emperor stepped forward, his presence radiating.
"Since Fourteenth doesn't want to, there's no need to force him."
His golden gaze settled upon Perturabo with something that might have been paternal concern.
"A card game is nothing. The road ahead is crucial, difficult, and the enemies you face will be even more shameless and despicable. You can't always win, so you must first learn to accept failure."
"I will." Perturabo's response carried the hollow quality of total defeat, his voice drained of the arrogance that had marked his earlier declarations.
The return of two Primarchs to the fold generated tremendous excitement throughout the Fourth and Fourteenth Legions.
After decades of fighting without their gene-fathers, the Astartes warriors could finally serve under the direct command of those whose genetic legacy flowed through their enhanced blood.
Morale soared to heights that had seemed impossible during the long years of separation.
This jubilation, however, served only to intensify the envy felt by those Legions whose Primarchs remained lost among the stars.
Their words carried bitter undertones, jealousy poorly concealed beneath formal congratulations and the empty platitudes of brotherhood.
The Emperor's Grand Design orchestrated a magnificent banquet to celebrate the reunion, transforming vast sections of the flagship into something approaching a palace of celebration.
Golden eagles spread their wings above tables laden with delicacies gathered from a hundred worlds, while servo-skulls drifted overhead broadcasting recordings of the Primarchs' most significant victories.
Yet even as the celebration reached its peak, both the Emperor and the Raven departed after making their ceremonial appearances.
Greater duties called, the Imperium's expansion waited for no feast, however grand it may be.
The Emperor retreated to his private laboratories, where the monumental task of technological integration awaited his attention.
The sciences he had brought from other realities required careful adaptation to function within this universe's physical laws.
Each innovation demanded painstaking analysis, each advancement measured against the potential for catastrophic failure.
The Raven, meanwhile, entered the Mist Space through pathways that existed between dimensions.
The churning fog rolled with its eternal motion, illuminated by four distinct light spheres that represented universes forever changed by imperial intervention.
The Super Gene Universe, Three-Body Universe, Eternal Universe, and Marvel Universe hung like cosmic jewels in the dimensional void, each connected to its neighbours by countless threads of light that pulsed with transferred energy.
These connections represented more than simple communication; they were conduits for the primordial power that flowed from disrupted destinies, the cosmic energy released when predetermined fate was shattered and reshaped.
According to the contract negotiated in the space between realities, this primordial power was to be divided according to contribution and need.
The Ravens' share remained substantially larger, though such disparities mattered little to the Emperor.
Once his transformation into the Darkness King reached completion, he would possess the capacity to devour and grow without limit.
Early development resources were merely conveniences rather than necessities.
The Raven's consciousness expanded to encompass all four realities simultaneously, observing the cascading consequences of imperial intervention across multiple streams of causality.
In the Super Gene Universe, the defeat of Karl the Death God and Hua Ye had eliminated all meaningful opposition to the Divine River Body's expanding empire.
The opposing Civilisation's attempts at resistance had proven pathetically inadequate when faced with Han Sen and his companions' mastery of the Great Clock's reality-manipulating capabilities.
Yet technological advancement had revealed disturbing anomalies within the universe's dark plane, strange fluctuations that analysis showed to be remnants of the ancient Pangu Civilisation.
The recovered data fragments painted an ominous picture: "Destruction, Civilizational Singularity, Red Line, Destruction."
Though incomplete, the information strongly suggested that the ultimate fear which Super God Academy had always dreaded was finally approaching manifestation.
When civilisations in the main universe developed beyond certain thresholds, they inevitably attracted harvesting attention from void-dwelling entities.
Han Sen and his companions had responded by dramatically increasing resource allocation toward developing new Gene Engine technologies, rapidly integrating the various sciences left by the Emperor's departure.
The Human Empire in that reality was strengthening itself for total war against forces that transcended conventional understanding.
The Three-Body Universe presented a more straightforward narrative of human triumph.
The Human Empire's development proceeded with unprecedented glory as the Sci-Fi Imperial Court Project advanced through its carefully planned phases.
Meanwhile, the human expedition fleet dispatched to conquer the Trisolaran homeworld had encountered the First Fleet of the Three-Body Civilisation in the interstellar void.
The resulting battle had been magnificent in its one-sided brutality, advanced human technology reducing alien vessels to expanding clouds of superheated debris.
The entire conflict had been broadcast live across human space, generating waves of jubilation among populations that had endured centuries of intimidation and submission.
For the first time in living memory, humanity could hold its collective head high.
The Three-Body Civilisation's desperate threats to reveal stellar coordinates had been met with complete indifference.
Humanity no longer cared about dark forest strikes or cosmic predators. They had become the hunters rather than the hunted.
In the prison facilities where ETO members awaited judgment, former Sword holder Cheng Xin had received word of the Trisolaran defeat, and she responded with her usual moral outrage.
Her meeting with Vader had revealed how deep her delusion went; even facing his harsh words, she clung to idealistic notions of universal brotherhood and peaceful coexistence.
"Your foolishness is the only reason I am here," Vader had informed her with genuine appreciation at how stupid this woman was.
"But soon this foolishness will have to end. Once the expeditionary fleet reaches the Three-Body Star System, your story will end, 'daughter of the stars, ' my foot, even animals are smarter than you."
The discovery of Yun Tianming's preserved brain had offered Cheng Xin a final, cruel hope, the possibility of reconciliation with the man whose love she had discarded in favour of some humanitarian principles.
Yet even this comfort was denied to her; her status as a convicted criminal against humanity meant no contact with outsiders.
The Eternal Universe required little observation; its development proceeded along predictable lines as 24th-century humanity, assisted by the Time Bureau's temporal technologies, expanded into space with unprecedented speed.
Colonies sprouted across the galaxy like flowers after rain, each new settlement representing another step toward species apotheosis.
The Marvel Universe, however, presented complications worthy of detailed attention.
The Multiverse War's commencement had triggered cascading changes across infinite realities, each alteration rippling outward to affect countless parallel streams of existence.
The Raven's consciousness focused upon this particular sphere of light, preparing to witness how the conflict between infinite versions of reality itself would ultimately reshape the cosmic order.
In a universe where gods walked among mortals and abstract entities shaped reality through pure will, even the smallest intervention could generate consequences beyond calculation.
The game continued, and the stakes grew ever higher.
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(T/L: This woman is such a bitch I have no word for it.)
PS: Check out this image of Perturabo and Calliphone I found.
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