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"Beware of Perturabo. Do not be deceived by his momentary actions and thoughts."
"Perturabo is a monster with a fractured mind. You can never imagine what new things he's contemplating. Rudeness might be considered straightforwardness by him, while advice might be seen as offense, or he might completely invert both perceptions. In short, his thoughts are constantly shifting, impossible to fully grasp."
"He is a genius, a genius unlike any human."
"Do not limit your impression to the scene just now. I once heard with my own ears how he executed a tenth of his warriors on the first day of his return, only to turn and care for the welfare of every soldier the next day. Therefore, if he suddenly becomes cold and heartless towards the evacuating populace later, do not be surprised, and certainly do not attempt to defy him."
"Remember, he is a calm monster, but his calm is never unleashed at the right moment. Simply complete the work he assigns. Do not over-express opinions or suggestions. He might listen, or he might deem it an offense and contempt, thereby falling into a rage he himself cannot control. That would be fatal."
"Finally, good luck."
——————
What Ahriman left behind was a formless message. It stealthily infiltrated a place no one could discover, clearly articulating itself deep within Morgan's mind. Morgan narrowed her eyes. She stood rooted to the spot, meticulously pondering every piece of information the Thousand Sons had left.
First, she listened to it slowly once, then recalled it again. Subsequently, she stepped forward, approaching the colossal instrument beside Perturabo. On its pale blue electronic screen lingered some unimportant messages and data that Perturabo had not yet finished processing.
Morgan glanced at Perturabo's screen, then she began her work. Her slender fingers moved back and forth across the keyboard, buttons, and data pads, producing crisp clicks that quickly merged into the digital symphony performed by the Iron Lord and his Tridents. Perturabo didn't specifically divert his attention to this newcomer mortal.
After Magnus left, he immediately plunged into a sea of work. The electronic screens and data pads, exclusive to a Primarch, updated ceaselessly, bringing data from the entire world and the expeditionary fleet before him. The Iron Lord, almost single-handedly, processed these matters. His two Tridents were more like errand-running apprentices at this point, dispatched by him to organize the things he had already processed.
Perturabo stared intently at his screen, reading and processing at least double-digit pieces of information every second. Yet, the superhuman senses unique to a Primarch faithfully informed him that his brother's mortal advisor would peek at his screen every five minutes. However, he didn't concern himself with such trivialities.
It was not until about twenty-five minutes later that the Iron Lord spoke for the first time, his brusque tone abruptly severing the previously harmonious symphony within the chamber. "I require data on external personnel in Carena City's eastern resettlement zone from midnight to noon today. Classify by gender and age. Send the data to me."
The Primarch's unquestionable voice reverberated in the chamber. Perturabo's command did not specify an executor; this was his usual habit: the Iron Lord never cared how his subordinates divided labor or cooperated; he only demanded results. And even as Perturabo's voice completely dissipated within the chamber, he still received no answer. Accompanied by this deathly silence, with each passing second, the Primarch's expression grew a shade darker.
Morgan could distinctly feel the increasingly frantic clicking of the two Tridents' keyboards, as if drowning men desperately sought a piece of driftwood. This panic lasted for about a minute, until she could clearly hear the Primarch's increasingly heavy breathing. It was then that the two Tridents finally trembled to a halt and turned around. "Father... we only have information up to 10 AM today..."
Morgan could hear Perturabo's laughter, a laughter filled with suppression. That laughter made the Tridents, seemingly forged of iron, begin to tremble uncontrollably. She calculated carefully. Just as Perturabo's dangerous gaze began to wander over his progeny, Morgan pressed the button beside her hand.
"Ding—" The notification of new information arriving interrupted Perturabo's suppressed fury. He turned his head, opened the file, and found exactly what he wanted. The Primarch glanced at the source of the communication, then cast his gaze towards the mortal beside him from the Thousand Sons Legion—she was calmly tapping the keyboard, as if she had just performed a most ordinary task.
"...Continue working." The sudden reprieve caused the two Tridents to exchange confused glances, while their father was once again immersed in the sea of data. The symphony resumed.
But this harmony did not last long, for soon after, the Primarch spoke again. "Latest data for cross-orbital transport D-447! I need it from at least half an hour ago. Why did it not complete today's transport quota?"
Morgan could feel the Iron Giant beside her turn again. Everything, living and inanimate, in the chamber trembled due to his aura. She could sense the two Tridents' rhythm once again becoming chaotic. This time, she deliberately waited a moment before selecting the necessary file from the vast amount of organized data and sending it. She could feel Perturabo's gaze linger on her for an instant.
Over the next hour, this situation happened repeatedly. Perturabo's demands were like the thunder of a midsummer rainy night, ceaseless. His needs were chaotic and strange. The Tridents occasionally managed to reply, but more often than not, their work rhythm was ruthlessly interrupted and disturbed. A purple glow swirled in Morgan's pale blue pupils, expressing disdain for this method of prodding.
Perturabo's inquiries seemed illogical, or perhaps merely adhered to some internal logic known only to him. He disdained explaining why he needed them, simply cracking the whip of language, making his progeny toil, as if this would produce the best lieutenants. But this did not impede Morgan's work. Her calculations and results effortlessly surpassed those of the two unfortunate Tridents. By observing Perturabo's work status every few minutes, she could even categorize the Iron Lord's needs in advance.
As the intermittent questions continued, the Primarch's inquiries seemed no longer directed at his sons. Instead, he seemed more expectant and curious about the answer from the mortal beside him. It was not until Morgan had extracted data concerning the fleet's fuel supply from the voluminous archives that the Primarch clapped his hands. He summoned his two sons and Morgan to his side, his gaze meticulously lingering on the three of them.
After a long pause, he addressed Morgan. "Tell me, why were you able to quickly find every piece of information I needed?"
[Due to prior preparation and categorization, Your Lordship.]
"How did you know what to prepare in advance?"
[According to the actual situation, Your Lordship.]
[I encountered a loss-of-order incident today in the resettlement zone outside Carena City. This incident would undoubtedly disrupt the evacuation and transportation process, thereby affecting the efficiency of the cross-orbital transport. Then there are issues concerning loading space, travel time, rotation schedules, and other questions you just mentioned. Ultimately, because the transport ship remained in low-Earth orbit for longer, it required more fuel replenishment.]
[And all of this naturally needs categorization and separate archiving, so I prepared it in advance.]
Perturabo was silent, then nodded. When his head turned back to his sons, his voice had become a roar capable of tearing apart giant beasts.
"Now! Did you hear that?!"
"Actual circumstances! Prior preparation! And a mind capable of linking events and logic!"
"As my sons, are you two truly inferior to a mere mortal in these aspects?!"
"Look at what you're doing—summaries and categorizations of yesterday's data? Is this what we need now?!"
The enraged Primarch had completely forgotten who had assigned this task to the two Tridents, and he never would have thought of such a thing. The two great figures, second only to the Primarch in the Legion, bowed their heads, letting their father vent his anger. They knew the reason for their father's fury was not the slowness or absence of data. It was that—they were even inferior to a mortal.
"Now, go out. Go get me first-hand intelligence and data. I don't want to see the texts that are supposed to document this afternoon's transport volume and unforeseen circumstances still be a confusing mess later."
"Also, tell Fourix that if he cannot properly perform the Trident's duties, if he cannot be my eyes and ears, then he is to abandon his rank and become a common Private for me!"
The Primarch's abrupt and unreasonable fury slightly abated with the hurried departure of the two warriors. He returned to his workstation. This time, his fingertips produced the heaviest syllables on the keyboard. Morgan, as usual, first observed his progress, then began her own work. She awaited the Primarch's sudden test, and she did not wait long.
"Food and supply storage in Carena City's southern warehouse." Soon, Perturabo's demand arrived. Morgan didn't even pause. As she typed her own tasks, she casually grabbed the relevant file and sent it.
A shadow flickered in Perturabo's eyes. Subsequently, the questions from the Primarch became increasingly complex and numerous. From the most crucial itineraries and reserves, population influx and airdrop arrangements, to the dismantling of real estate and buildings. Then, the focus of the questions gradually shifted from the most important urban and resettlement areas, extending to what could be considered insignificant places.
"Population evacuation status of the Crimson Gold Mountains."
"Ding—"
"Real estate transport status of Zalrukhin City."
"Ding—"
"Storm movements in the Orchis Mountains and their impact on Carena City."
[...] Morgan narrowed her eyes. She carefully looked at the map of Dawnsing Star: the Orchis Mountains and Carena City were separated by half the world. She thought of something. From the corner of her eye, Morgan glanced at Perturabo's expression. It was a grim steadiness. So, she slowly took her hands off the keyboard.
[Apologies, Your Lordship. I failed to note the importance of this information and ranked it third priority. I have only completed 75% of it now. If you require it, I can prioritize its processing.]
As soon as Morgan's words fell, a smile returned to Perturabo's face. "No need to blame yourself." "This is Dawnsing Star's volatile season. According to past records, storms in the Orchis region have a 3.5% chance of affecting Carena City's weather conditions. From a mortal's perspective, it's natural not to notice such data."
"You have done very well, Morgan. Now, continue working." Successfully stumping the mortal before him seemed to immediately improve the Primarch's mood. He once again plunged into his work, the sound of his fingers hitting the keyboard and data pads becoming light and bright. Morgan lowered her head, shielding her pupils, and adopted an air of having learned a lesson.
[...Yes, Your Lordship.]