Smack!
Perturabo's fingertips caught a protruding rock, and with a burst of effort, he pulled himself onto the cliff.
Before him lay a dreamlike new world. Shrubbery crowned the high ground like a bramble diadem. Fertile fields stretched to the horizon in the twilight, glistening with an oily sheen like unfurled animal hides.
After the rain, the sky had cleared. Jagged mountain ridges pierced the clouds at the junction of earth and sky. The sunset gilded every peak with a molten gold hue. Ancient quarries dotted their flanks, and majestic fortresses atop the summits sparkled like gems on a crown.
Just as he was admiring the view, Caelan suddenly intruded into his field of vision.
In stark contrast to Perturabo's muscles, taut from climbing, and his heavy, ragged breaths, Caelan's body was enveloped in a pale blue psychic glow.
He floated lightly, as if pulled by invisible threads, and touched the ground with grace.
Perturabo's jaw tightened. Caelan's merciless scolding from moments ago had planted a seed of resentment in his heart. He held a grudge!
Perturabo strode away forcefully, leaving Caelan behind in the sunset glow.
He didn't know where he was going. He had no memories from before today.
When he woke up, he was halfway up the cliff face.
He had no memories, but he couldn't stay suspended halfway up the cliff. So he had to keep climbing.
He met Caelan shortly after waking up.
If Caelan had been a good person, maybe he would have become friends with him.
Unfortunately, Caelan wasn't a good person. Though not exactly a bad person either, he was a person with a vile, twisted personality.
Perturabo hated twisted people the most!
No matter where he was going, he needed to leave Caelan and head for a wider world.
Other mountains on Olympia had fortresses, so the plateau he was on must have them too.
He needed to find other people. He refused to believe everyone in the world was as twisted as Caelan.
He had no memories, so he could explore the world to his heart's content. Everything he saw was a new experience. Therefore, he didn't need Caelan!
"He's still just a child, after all." Caelan's sigh, carried by the evening wind, drifted lightly into Perturabo's ears.
No matter how paranoid, vile, twisted, ungrateful, cruel, and chilling the future Perturabo would become, at this moment, he was ultimately just a six-year-old child, a lonely soul stripped of all memories.
Humans are born craving security.
Some seek refuge in strength. Others find solace in familiar environments.
But Perturabo had nothing.
His mind was a blank slate. No traces of the past. No reliable cognition. Even his own sense of self was a phantom in the mist.
He only remembered his name was Perturabo. Everything else was unknown.
A six-year-old child, waking up on an unfamiliar cliff, his memory a complete blank. He knew neither where he came from nor where he was going.
With no past memories to rely on, no familiar faces to trust, and the very question of who he was an unsolvable puzzle, he could only climb upwards, because stopping meant falling; he had to move forward alone, because no one could give him answers.
Immersed in this isolated and helpless situation, even the most resilient soul would inevitably give rise to unease and bewilderment.
And it was this deeply rooted unease that shaped Perturabo's contradictory personality.
To combat anxiety and unease, the human brain instinctively activates its self-defense mechanisms.
These so-called self-defense mechanisms maintain psychological balance by distorting reality. They often involve disguising or twisting the facts. Their function is to protect the ego, preventing anxiety from leading to illness.
Self-defense mechanisms are, in essence, self-deception. Their long-term harm far outweighs any short-term benefit.
For normal people, these mechanisms rise and fall as naturally as breathing, activating when threats loom, relaxing in safe environments.
But the valve on Perturabo's self-defense mechanism seemed welded shut. No one could close it.
Deep down, he craved belonging. Yet, driven by unease, he instinctively resisted the outside world.
He needed to be loved and recognized more than anyone. Yet he angrily denied needing anyone at all.
This psychological tearing wouldn't heal with time. Instead, it would intensify in ever-growing mental internal conflict.
He spent his life falling endlessly into the abyss of twistedness until he hit rock bottom.
Even if the Emperor generously gave him love and recognition, even if the Emperor spared no praise for his every victory during the Great Crusade,
Perturabo would still be a twisted person. He would still be twisted.
When the Emperor praised him, he would nitpick because the Emperor used seven complimentary words for other primarchs but only five for him.
When the Emperor smiled at him, he would take offense because the Emperor's smile wasn't as sincere as the one he gave his brothers.
Every word of praise from the Emperor would be scrutinized under a magnifying glass. Every smile would be weighed on a scale.
Even if the Emperor repeatedly said he loved him, he would find it nauseating, because the person the Emperor loved most was obviously Horus.
Therefore, no matter what the Emperor did, it would lead Perturabo to the same conclusion:
The Emperor never loved him. He was just brushing him off.
And these imagined slights would make him even more twisted, forming a closed loop.
His twistedness wasn't something love and recognition could solve. The root of his problem lay in that impossible-to-close self-defense mechanism, that welded-shut valve constantly distorting his interaction with the outside world:
He had to twist all goodwill into contempt and ulterior motives to maintain his internally preset framework of "loneliness."
It all stemmed from today, from the loneliness and unease of a memory-wiped child stranded on a cliff.
He was lonely. And he had to be lonely.
Because he was born lonely. Only loneliness could protect him.
And this self-protection ultimately transformed into the cage that imprisoned him for life.
This self-defense mechanism wasn't without its flaws. When faced with pure malice, Perturabo couldn't beautify it into kindness. The mechanism would lose its usefulness.
But pure malice wouldn't make Perturabo close the valve either. It would just temporarily disable the mechanism.
He would still be a twisted person.
Caelan couldn't be a villain. But he couldn't be a saint either.
A villain was ineffective. A saint was useless.
He could only be a twisted person.
Not thoroughly evil. Not purely good.
Perturabo was this kind of person. So was Erda.
She backstabbed the Emperor, also because she lacked security.
She believed the Emperor didn't truly love the primarchs and didn't want to see the miserable, despairing future where humans were forced to rule the galaxy. So she resolved to save her sons. But despite committing an unforgivable sin, Erda didn't choose to flee Terra. Instead, she returned to her birthplace and went into seclusion.
She was waiting for the Emperor's visit. Not seeking forgiveness or repentance. But stubbornly hoping the Master of Mankind would bow his head and admit fault to her.
Perhaps, deep down, she was still expecting the Emperor to beg her to find the primarchs. That way, the story of her recovering them later would become a legend.
Just like Perturabo, who denied needing love while simultaneously nitpicking that others' love wasn't pure enough.
Her narcissistic mindset was doomed to fail. Because the Emperor was a true Sigma male. He completely ignored her.
Perturabo and Erda; they were both waiting for an apology that would never come.
Because even if reality apologized to them, they would think the apology wasn't humble enough, or the attitude wasn't sincere enough.
In their eyes, it could always be worse. It was always someone else's fault!
"Exactly like your mother. The spitting image."
Caelan let out a meaningful sigh. This was a true mother and son!
Perturabo spun around abruptly, "You knew my mother?"
"I know of her."
Perturabo's footsteps halted for a moment. He desperately wanted to get away from Caelan, yet that question about 'her' nailed him to the spot.
"She..." Perturabo ground the words between his teeth for a long time. "...what kind of person is she?"
Curiosity finally triumphed over twistedness.
"Perturabo, you are actually very much like your mother." Caelan pretended to be profound.
His gaze passed Perturabo, fixed on the sunset. A hint of nostalgia flickered in his eyes, maximizing Perturabo's anticipation. "You are both ungrateful little brats."
Children always idolize their parents as heroes. When that faith collapses, what wells up isn't necessarily disappointment. It could be rage against the blasphemer.
Perturabo instantly reddened. Like an enraged young beast, he leaped through the air, his fist whistling towards Caelan.
But psychic energy, like an invisible hammer, slammed down, pinning him hard into the dirt.
"Bam!"
His cheek ground into the muddy earth. Humiliation and anger churned in his chest. But he could only struggle futilely, like a trapped beast nailed in place.
"Can't take it already?"
Caelan's voice drifted from above. His condescending arrogance made Perturabo's eyes redden.
"Liar!"
"I didn't lie to you. What angers you isn't that I lied. It's that I tore away your pretense."
"I did not!"
Caelan ignored his anger. "Lies don't hurt. The truth is the sharp knife."
"What truly stings you is never a lie. It's the truth you desperately deny."
"You didn't hit me to defend your mother. That's just you deceiving yourself."
"Liar!"
"Can you say anything besides 'liar'? Your insults are so barren."
"It's not true!"
"You're right."
Perturabo suddenly stopped struggling.
He looked up. His eyes, burning with rage, now showed a flicker of wavering. Like a trapped beast scenting a possibility in its desperate situation. Like a drowning man grasping a final lifeline.
"Everything has a choice. Even the truth is no exception."
Caelan's shadow covered him like an iron curtain. But at this moment, Perturabo's struggles suddenly intensified.
"Let me go!"
Perturabo roared and suddenly lunged. He didn't break free from the psychic shackles. Caelan had dispelled them.
The fist hanging in the air ultimately didn't fall.
"If you think I'm so despicable, why bother coming to me?"
His upturned face was dyed red by the sunset. A tremor, unnoticed even by himself, was wrapped in his questioning.
"What else could it be? To see you in your miserable state? To humiliate you?"
Perturabo's nails dug deep into his palms. Blood seeped from the torn wounds, winding down his lifelines.
"No. I'm not that bored." Caelan's voice faded into the serene dusk. "I came to prove that I was wrong."
'Prove how?'
Perturabo's throat tightened. The words of questioning ground between his teeth but never escaped.
Because the answer was already obvious. Only he could prove Caelan wrong. Only Perturabo could prove that Perturabo was not an ungrateful little brat!
"You're wrong!" The young beast squeezed out a low growl through clenched teeth.
Caelan asked with a hint of a smile, "How will you prove it?"
"I will prove it to you!" He almost roared in response. His voice exploded in the twilight, startling a few birds perched in the bushes.
"That's not something you can do just by talking."
A cold snort rolled from Perturabo's nose. He strode forward. Each step landed with extreme force, as if trying to grind Caelan and his questioning into the dust along with his footprints.
He would prove Caelan wrong!
Caelan wasn't just wrong. He was absurdly wrong!
Caelan slowly followed Perturabo, mentally reviewing the educational experiment just conducted.
Education for Perturabo couldn't be gradual. Traditional methods were doomed to fail on him.
Gentle guidance would be twisted into hypocrisy. Kind concern would be interpreted as charity.
Perturabo's welded-shut defense mechanism was like a distorting mirror. It would refract all warmth into ferocious shapes.
He had to become extreme. Use malice to bypass Perturabo's self-defense mechanism. Constantly stimulate him with denial.
The more he denied, the more Perturabo would desperately struggle, bursting forth with a fierce desire to prove himself.
Caelan couldn't give Perturabo any explicit recognition. A slap followed by a sweet carrot would only make the defense mechanism operate more stubbornly.
Caelan had to find another way.
"Perturabo."
Caelan's voice came from behind, like a wisp of smoke drifting into his ears.
Perturabo's footsteps didn't pause. But the tips of his ears trembled slightly, exposing his hidden true feelings.
Caelan sighed, "I miss your brothers a bit."
Perturabo clenched his jaw, forcing out through gritted teeth, "What's that got to do with me?!"
"Whenever I see you, I think of your brothers. I think of how outstanding they are."
Caelan's voice was unhurried. But it struck like a heavy hammer, slamming into Perturabo's unhealed wound.
Perturabo's knuckles went white. 'What did he mean, whenever he saw me, he thought of how outstanding my brothers were?'
Wasn't this a subtle mockery that he wasn't as good as his brothers?
In Caelan's eyes, was even breathing a crime?
Was he going to say he was the worst of the bunch next?
Why? Just because he resembled his so-called mother?
No! He was nothing like her!
He wasn't a pathetic, twisted person. He wasn't an ungrateful little brat!
He was not his mother. He was Perturabo!
"I will prove it. I will definitely prove it to you!"
Perturabo was still reddening. Caelan had already begun self-reflection.
He was a serious educator. Not good at psychological manipulation. Otherwise, he could have influenced him subtly.
The essence of Perturabo's personality type was a contradiction built on a lack of self-identity and a hunger for belonging.
His psychological mechanism was like an hourglass that never stopped. The upper glass container was filled with a thirst for recognition. But it could never trickle down into the lower container, the one named 'self-assurance.'
Perturabo's pursuit of the Emperor was, in essence, a meticulously crafted self-deception:
He deified the Emperor as the perfect father. Then, due to perceived favoritism, he fell into cognitive dissonance.
So he transferred the same morbid craving onto Horus. But the Warmaster was a senile, father-loving homosexual. Perturabo, disgusted, ran off again.
Ever since he stopped being a simp, his temper improved greatly. His mindset became normal.
Caelan's educational method for Perturabo was reverse taming.
He wasn't trying to mold Perturabo into an obedient loyal dog. Perturabo's twisted nature destined he could never be a loyal dog. He would eventually turn on his master.
Caelan wanted to turn Perturabo into a human being.
"Perturabo."
"Perturabo?"
"Perturabo!"
"I'm listening!" Perturabo's angry voice tore through the twilight.
"Jenny asks Forrest Gump, 'What do you want to be when you grow up?'"
"Forrest Gump replies, 'What do you mean? Can't I just be myself?'"
Perturabo frowned. "Are you trying to tell me to turn a deaf ear to other people's gossip?"
"Goddamn Gump! You are goddamn brilliant! I have never heard such a goddamn satisfactory answer in my goddamn life! Your goddamn IQ is definitely over a goddamn hundred and sixty! You are goddamn brilliant! Goddamn Private Gump!"
"You're too noisy!" Perturabo suddenly slammed on the brakes. "Shut up! I don't want to hear your idle gossip!"
What other people's gossip? From start to finish, it was just Caelan buzzing like an annoying bee!
Caelan's eyes went wide. He waved his arms exaggeratedly and shouted, "Goddamn Gump! How dare you use my own magic against me!"
"Shut up! I'm not Gump!"
"Admit you're wrong first, and then I'll forgive you."
"I'm not wrong! You are!"
"How do you prove I'm wrong?"
"I said, I will prove it to you!"
"Then go ahead and prove it!"
Perturabo stomped away angrily. Caelan casually followed.
Perturabo could have left without looking back from the start. But he insisted on stopping to argue with his idle gossip.
Perturabo, with his back to Caelan, allowed a barely perceptible smile to curl at the corner of his mouth.
That sharp retort just now was like a dose of good medicine. The pent-up frustration in his chest finally eased.
His steps were still heavy. The sound of his boots crushing gravel was especially clear in the wilderness. This was the victory march belonging solely to the victor!
"Effect is remarkable." An imperceptible smile also tugged at the corner of Caelan's mouth.
Educating Perturabo was like dancing on a knife's edge. He couldn't give Perturabo sweet carrots. He couldn't just keep slapping him either. That would only make Perturabo's psyche more twisted.
He had to give Perturabo opportunities to relax. So he gave him sugar-coated shells.
Perturabo might not swallow the sweetness but he would definitely throw the shell back.
Freud long ago told the world that all psychological illness stems from repression!
Not only of sex, but of love itself, and when it comes to the Primarchs, there is not one among them who does not suffer from a lack of love.