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Approximately ten years had passed since Perturabo reunited with his father and joined this great Crusade to reclaim the galaxy. If one word were to summarize the Iron Lord's decade in the galaxy, it would be "perplexity."
Perturabo was always perplexed. When he gazed at the lonely stars and that dreadful eye in the sky above his homeworld, Olympia, he would be perplexed and lament the unfairness of fate: why bestow upon him such wisdom, only to cast him among a throng of mediocrities?
When he reunited with his sons, he was appalled to discover how inadequate his Legion was: they would lose almost half their combat strength in a simple campaign. In his eyes, the soldiers of the Fourth Legion were far from excellent warriors.
Thus, the words "decimation" gently drifted from his lips. He coldly watched as the chosen unfortunates were beaten to death by their comrades, and quickly fell into new perplexity. Why, despite such warnings, were his sons still inferior to the Space Wolves or the Dark Angels?
In this perplexity, Perturabo commanded his Legion. His doubts continuously expanded as the war continued. This inevitably affected his mood and work efficiency, but he simply couldn't help it; he grew increasingly perplexed by more and more disappointing realities.
Just like now, a new perplexity was forming in Perturabo's mind. It grew and expanded, greatly irritating the Primarch. Why, why were his sons, his meticulously chosen Tridents, still inferior to a mere mortal under Magnus's command? Why did these guys always disappoint him so much?
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Were they dissatisfied? Were they using this method to defy his rule? And his brother, Magnus, why did he specifically leave a mortal here? Was this a show of force? A boast? Did he truly not know of this mortal's excellence? When he arranged for this mortal to stay here, was it truly just an unintentional act? Was Magnus mocking him? Mocking his sons? Mocking his Legion? Or... mocking him, the Primarch of the Iron Warriors?
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As his thoughts brewed, the Iron Lord's face visibly darkened. His symphony unconsciously grew somber again. Perturabo began to treat his work harshly, as if they were his sworn enemies. When his sons, who were carrying out repair work on the Light of Steadfastness,
sent him the results of the first phase of the project, Perturabo almost forced himself to find a problem. He unhesitatingly drew and redrew this minor flaw, angrily berating his disappointing children through the screen. Their crudeness and inferiority disgusted him.
Idiots! He used this harsh sneer as the concluding remark for his assessment of the project results, then cut off communication, leaving them to argue and resolve the issue themselves. Just then, he noticed the working sound of the mortal beside him stop.
Morgan had finished organizing the last data file in front of her. Following the logical order and priorities of various tasks, she sent all the data one by one to the never-resting Primarch. Although she was born with the most exquisite mastery of data and logic, handling such a massive quantity for the first time still made her feel tired, not to mention carefully concealing her identity in front of a peer. The mental effort involved in this was even more taxing than the work itself.
But just as she was about to close her eyes for a brief rest, Perturabo's cold tone came from beside her. "The data for the seventh summary table is missing. Recreate it. Complete it within fifteen minutes." Morgan's almost narrowed blue eyes snapped open. She was certain that just before she closed her eyes, that seventh summary table was perfectly fine on Perturabo's electronic screen, awaiting his inspection.
[...Yes, Your Lordship.] She deliberately made her voice hesitate briefly before becoming a firm execution, for this inexplicably missing document contained thousands of data entries, enough to make a mortal suffer. And just as her fingers returned to the keyboard, Perturabo's voice came again. This time, there was a barely perceptible tremor in his tone.
"No... no need."
"Give it to me. You can... rest." The Iron Lord's head was held high, as if deliberately avoiding the mortal's gaze.
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You fool, what are you doing?! On his uplifted face, Perturabo's iron features were twisted. Venting his anger on a mere mortal, a paltry mortal—what was the difference between this action and those vulgar cowards on Olympia?! Innate arrogance and artistic sensibility once again consumed Perturabo's mind.
When he was consumed by the rage of jealousy and self-doubt, he was a tyrant craving destruction. So he naturally destroyed the result that had possibly cost countless efforts and time, just as he had effortlessly destroyed his sons, destroyed countless kingdoms.
But upon witnessing the destruction of the fruits of his labor, and hearing the slow yet determined execution, the heart containing a love for art and logic once again took over the kingdom of his thoughts. Perturabo's other half, ripped from his inner being, questioned him.
It was a soul composed of burden, silence, and unimaginable arrogance. It had always been this way: whenever things didn't go as Perturabo wished, he would become angry, furious, and destroy and vent indiscriminately, until he witnessed his own actions, and then he would feel guilt, regret, and silently repair it, feeling touched by his own silent efforts.
But this entirely self-indulgent emotion could neither bring external applause nor alleviate his mood. Thus, his anger would once again fester, awaiting its next eruption, a cycle repeating until calmness and sensibility were worn away, leaving only a perpetually angry and resentful tyrant.
But for now, it was too early. The Emperor's Crusade had just begun, and Perturabo's grueling battles and tempering were far from enough to wear away much of his composure. Perturabo remained silent. He began this extra work, this self-imposed task. He suppressed the anger and emotions in his heart, allowing them to burn his soul. Steel feared no flame; he always believed that.
The data was processed with extreme speed. Driven by some idea known only to himself, Perturabo meticulously examined Morgan's work. The ultimate truth forced him to admit that this mortal's work capacity was indeed as outstanding as Magnus had described. She was a figure worthy of admiration.
Meanwhile, the Primarch's instinctive perceptions wandered through the chamber. He could hear Morgan, who had received the rest command, first stretching her body, then cautiously scanning the entire room behind him. Her gaze seemed to be immediately drawn to the colossal colonial mothership, the Light of Steadfastness, in the center of the city. Perturabo could hear her softly deducing something.
This deduction lasted for a very short time. Subsequently, he heard the sound of high-heeled boots stepping on marble floor. His superhuman perception faithfully fed back the movements of the sound's owner, and upon realizing where she was going, the hairs on Perturabo's neck involuntarily stirred.
As if drawn by their special nature, Morgan involuntarily walked into the depths of the chamber. There, rows upon rows of steel-forged, approximately half-human-height long tables were displayed. Upon them rested various exquisite models and handicrafts.
Even in the dimly lit depths of this chamber, they still shimmered with the brilliant glow of art and skill. She could see the peculiar artworks: for example, a model of a grand theater. It was clearly a half-finished product, and the top of the theater was not an area for ventilation or movement, but rather battlements serving a defensive purpose.
[Thaliachron], this name was written on the draft paper pinned under the model. Beside it were more finished products: a model of a giant lighthouse, with wall carvings depicting heroes slaying sea monsters; a temple-like building,
inside which layers of bookshelves and high platforms for debate were faintly visible; and even more blueprints, rolled up and placed in the corner of the table, one of which, unfurled, depicted a golden lion statue. At the feet of this mighty beast was an inscription in Terran, seemingly a dedication.
Morgan blinked. She could feel that as her steps and gaze circled these artworks and unfinished pieces, the work rhythm of the Primarch standing at the workstation was slightly disrupted, as if a true lion witnessing an ignorant cub tread upon its national borders.
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Perturabo observed the audacious mortal from the corner of his eye. She was unknowingly walking in a place the Iron Lord preferred to keep secret from others. He watched her walk there, feeling a sense of familiarity, which made him recall something.
Decades ago, when he was a talented child and general adopted by the tyrant of the city-state on Olympia, his adoptive father had also walked among the artworks he had created. He remembered the question he had asked his adoptive father at that time, and the answer he received. He had always remembered it.
So, when the last piece of data was organized in an absolutely correct manner, he spoke.
"What are you looking at."
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"I see waste, useless and extravagant waste, my child, my Perturabo. You possess god-given intellect and power, why waste your life on these useless things?"
"I can easily possess these so-called arts. Countless sculptors and painters have gained advantages by receiving my patronage. With a snap of my fingers, their so-called art will become a glorification of my achievements, even if those achievements never existed."
"But you are different, my child. Your abilities should not be limited to these useless things. Look at your deadly inventions: tanks, artillery, and explosives. This is what you should be unleashing. They can easily achieve victory, dominate wars, and even conquer worlds!"
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[I am looking at art, Your Lordship. I am looking at a burning heart that has been buried and misunderstood.]
The moment her adoptive father's voice dissipated in her mind, Morgan's answer followed. It was completely opposite.
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Perturabo smiled. He turned around, leaving his electronic screen for the first time. Behind him, orders capable of keeping the entire world busy for the rest of the day were being sent out methodically.
"Art?"
"These are mere pastimes, madam."
"You must understand, I am a general. I do not need so-called art. No one will need it. You should understand that you serve the Imperium, a place composed of the Emperor, generals, and armies." Perturabo spoke, uttering a self-assessment he barely believed and a reality he had to accept. Then, he saw Morgan's smile.
[Do you enjoy death, Your Lordship?]
This was almost an insult. A few short words successfully cast a shadow over the Iron Lord's face again.
"If that's your terrible metaphor, then I will tell you with utmost clarity that in the galaxy, no one truly enjoys death, unless it's being smashed into the head of their enemy."
[Yes, no one likes death, and no one wants death, whether it's an individual, a Legion, or the Imperium. Death is resisted.] The silver-haired official crossed her fingers, resting them against her jaw.
[Death is an ominous tranquility, a pitch-black silence, and a sorrowful future devoid of dreams, passion, change, and surprises.]
[But isn't a world without art and aesthetics just like that?]
Perturabo was silent, his eyes obscured by shadow. His lips trembled, but he did not speak.
[When the galaxy is plunged into eternal war, soldiers and bloodthirsty war machines advance across endless wastelands, and every person on every world has no purpose but to provide resources for cannibalistic warfare; when paintings and songs are deemed useless waste, idols occupy theaters, and scriptures overshadow academia... how is such a world different from death?]
[And we fight here, our journey crosses galaxies and star systems. We offer everything for a better future, isn't it precisely to prevent humanity's future from becoming like this?]
"..." Heavy breathing.
Only then did Morgan seem to awaken from a dream. She lowered her head, realizing her offense to a Primarch.
[Please forgive me, Your Lordship, I just...]
"No!" Perturabo interrupted her. He was silent for a moment until the final electronic beep sounded, signifying the end of the day's work—and a brief rest period. Then, he pointed to a nearby seat, speaking in a commanding tone.
"Sit down."
He said.
"Continue."