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I am not a man; I am far greater than that.
— Perturabo
When circumstances allowed, the Primarch of the Fourth Legion was actually a talkative individual, though he would never admit it himself.
Perturabo's mind was like a seemingly dormant active volcano: it was composed of numbers, angles, statistics, and percentages, combined with the magma of wrath, and then blocked by his arrogant, enduring, and beauty-seeking nature, achieving a precarious, day-to-day balance.
This mountain of the mind appeared stable and unshakeable, but in reality, only a few rocks needed to be gently pried in the right places for the suppressed interior to erupt uncontrollably, forming a destructive torrent.
But similarly, opening this volcano didn't mean everything was settled, because the magma of passion would eventually cool. At that point, the Lord of Iron's thoughts would once again hide back within the dormant volcano, as if nothing had ever happened.
So, opportunities were fleeting, like an eagle soaring across the sky, gone in an instant.
A hunter gets only one chance.
To shoot down that flying eagle.
Morgan lowered her eyebrows, her fingers deftly opening the pouch at her waist. From it, she took out a miniature silver flask, containing her personally brewed fine wine, made from the best grains and fruits.
Morgan didn't particularly enjoy brewing. Thanks to the ruthless sovereign who created her, this silver-haired, malicious woman could hardly ever experience joy in any action.
She forced herself into this craft and became a true brewing master for one reason only:
Her persona.
When Magnus's sons personally witnessed the wine brewed by this silver-haired female officer and praised its mellow sweetness, their hearts naturally formed evaluations such as steady and patient: these were the qualities required to brew a good wine.
Similarly, when they witnessed how beautifully the countless tasks handled by Morgan were completed, they naturally believed her to be a capable, experienced, and trustworthy individual.
From work to life, from battle to rest, the Thousand Sons witnessed her accomplishments and continuously formed their own conclusions in their minds. They discussed and spread their views on this mortal among themselves. In the end, even a Thousand Son who had never met Morgan would, based on their comrades' descriptions and countless real-life examples, conceive of an individual whose ability, quality, character, and integrity were impeccable.
Therefore, when Magnus asked his sons, he naturally received an excellent and irresistible option. When Ahriman, Atharva, and countless Thousand Sons all formed the same image due to their personal observations or hearsay, even Magnus wouldn't suspect anything.
Although he had never met Morgan, when he tasted the fine wine brewed by Morgan, when he saw the work Morgan handled, and when he heard his trusted aides' affirmations of Morgan, the image of Morgan as a person had already solidified in his mind: she was the best candidate for the Legion's Senior Advisor.
Of course.
Magnus was Magnus.
Perturabo was Perturabo.
Although both were Primarchs, their personalities and essences could be vastly different.
At the very least, before witnessing it himself, Perturabo wouldn't believe anyone, no matter how extravagantly his sons praised someone. After all, he equally looked down on his own sons.
But he was not without flaws. The Lord of Iron's greatest flaw was his strength:
Genius.
[Thaliaklone...]
Holding her flask, Morgan softly chanted the name. It belonged to the exquisite, partially completed craft before her, to the grand fantasy that still existed in Perturabo's mind and on his blueprints.
Accompanying Morgan's voice, Perturabo's gaze also shifted to his unfinished work. When the mellow aroma of the wine began to fill the secret chamber, the Lord of Iron actually felt a hint of shame: he was showing an unfinished work to an outsider. How was that any different from publicly exhibiting a failure?
[...Why, though...?]
Perturabo's superhuman perception caught this soft sigh. He saw the silver-haired mortal involuntarily pulling the gears of the model, sighing and marveling.
The Primarch narrowed his eyes.
His mind and reason quickly helped him deduce an interesting fact: this mortal advisor from the Thousand Sons Legion, though steady in character and excellent in ability, was not a flawless individual.
For example, now, when she was engrossed in her thoughts, she would involuntarily blurt out her true feelings from the depths of her heart.
Recalling her previous rash statement, Perturabo became even more convinced of this. He looked at Morgan's cyan pupils, which were filled with the drifting focus of deep thought.
"Is something wrong?"
[Why are there walls?]
Facing the Primarch's question, the mortal before him answered without thinking, directly voicing her question. Only after these words left her mouth did her pupils belatedly regain their clarity.
Seeing this scene, Perturabo's lips couldn't help but curl slightly, but then he thought of Morgan's question, and his lips quickly straightened again, looking a bit comical for a moment.
"Walls make you uncomfortable?"
[...When it's combined with a theater... yes, they do.]
In Perturabo's eyes, the mortal slowly raised her arm, took a sip of wine, then composed herself and directly faced his question.
Along with this answer, Perturabo also looked at his own work.
"Thaliaklone... I prepared it for the triumph on Holy Terra. It will be built directly opposite my genefather's residence, recording the story of this expedition, and of the galaxy and heroes."
The Primarch spoke, slowly recounting. A rare light of future and ideals burned in his eyes.
[But even so... you still hope it can serve a purpose in a possible disaster?]
Perturabo laughed.
"How did you come to that conclusion?"
[Because art without protection and defense is one of the most fragile things in the world.]
"..."
Perturabo was silent. Under his gaze, Morgan once again immersed herself in the artwork before her. She was clearly lost in some memory.
[When art was created, those were surely golden ages. People didn't need to worry about life and conflict, because they created great art and works, fantasizing about future possibilities.]
"..."
[But progress was too slow after all. The nation fell into stagnation. The former peace and prosperity became capital for future generations' lack of ambition. In the name of art, they allowed themselves to fall into indulgence and depravity, until the barbarian's war-fires raged, cities crumbled, temples decayed, leaving only the remaining works for future generations to lament.]
"..."
Perturabo breathed heavily.
[Of course, there were perhaps wise men among the barbarians. They saw these works, lamented the past glory and wisdom, but were only met with ridicule by their peers. The most barbaric victors crowed triumphantly: if these works truly contained greatness, how could they have been conquered by me?]
"..."
[They never understood the meaning of conquest. They took for granted that only fire and sword could last forever. They were foolish and crude, yet they succeeded, because their opponents were powerless to defend their art and wisdom.]
"..."
"You, in what capacity, lament all this?"
Morgan heard Perturabo's voice, a faltering, genuine inquiry.
[That is a private matter, sir.]
Damn it, her pupils had regained their clarity.
Perturabo felt a pang of disappointment. In that steady and coherent recounting just now, he felt as if a narrator was evaluating his days on Olympia.
Guns, steel, war, fire. Watching glorious cities crumble, ancient towers fall, and then launching the next attack amidst urging and false comfort...
To hell with it.
The Primarch returned to his workbench. In his sight, his final piece of data had finally been sent correctly.
Just then, the commlink buzzed, and Magnus's voice came from the other end.
"How are things on your end, Perturabo?"
"All smoothly. And you?"
"I've encountered a small problem here, regarding that governor... Never mind, long story short, Carena might be subjected to a sudden assault. Be prepared. The enemy might use air and armored forces."
"Understood."
"...By the way."
As if suddenly recalling something, Magnus abruptly realized that perhaps his brother was better suited to be a judge than his sons.
"How capable is my senior advisor?"
Magnus waited for a moment, until he heard Perturabo's laughter from the commlink.
By the Emperor, he rarely laughed so... brightly.
After laughing for a while, Perturabo gave his unequivocal assessment.
"Competent."
Morgan closed her eyes, then opened them.
Her pupils were clear, the light of reason that could see through the essence of phenomena.
She closed them again, then opened them.
Her pupils blurred, tracing back her past, a genuine woman with no lies.
She picked up the flask, drank the last sip. Discounting the lost portion, what remained was just enough for one drink, as if it had been calculated in advance.
She smiled.
Though the smile wasn't born of joy, it still appeared sweet.
Genius itself is the greatest weakness.
Geniuses are confident; they rarely trust the evaluations of others. They only trust their own judgment.
Superior talent forges their abilities and determines their arrogance. When they decide something, they firmly believe it and never think their judgment is wrong.
Until they hit rock bottom.
The silver-haired hunter seized the opportunity.
The eagle of steel had fallen.