Chapter 13: The Forging of the Iron Warriors (Part 2)
2026-02-27 21:05:40 Author: One Meter Six Me
Twenty-two Emperor-class Titans stood silently at the edge of the training field, their eyes flickering with faint light, as if they too were watching these newly transformed warriors.
The Iron Guard's eyes betrayed a look of envy. They could no longer undergo Space Marine modifications—although the surgical procedures themselves weren't age-restricted, the modifications that could be used on them had already been applied. Their bodies could hardly bear such burdens anymore.
Iron Guard who could rival Space Marines were already at the pinnacle of human capability. To undergo further modifications, they would have to wait for Perturabo's biotechnology research to make significant progress again.
Footsteps echoed from the training field entrance, and everyone's gaze turned to the tall figure walking in.
Perturabo strode into the field, with Calliphone and Andros following behind him. His eyes swept over the ten thousand upright figures, a hint of satisfaction flashing in his gaze.
"Very good."
His voice wasn't loud, but every word reached each person's ears clearly.
"You've survived the three new surgical procedures, proving yourselves worthy of the name Iron Warriors. But this is only the beginning."
"Starting today, your training will take place here. Not ordinary physical training, nor standard tactical drills."
He paused, his gaze becoming profound.
"The Logic Engine can construct extremely realistic virtual battlefields. In the training terminals, your consciousness will be directly connected to the virtual environment, experiencing the most authentic combat. Enemy fire, changing terrain, the casualties of comrades—everything will be indistinguishable from a real battlefield."
"There, you can experience countless wars, facing all manner of enemies. Greenskins, rebels, heretics, xenos..."
"Even the tactics of other Astartes Legions."
The members of the Fourth Legion's expressions changed dramatically upon hearing this. What did Father mean? What was he planning!? But no one spoke up to ask at this moment—their obedience made them follow Perturabo's every word to an extreme degree.
"You can accumulate in a single day the combat experience that would otherwise take decades to obtain."
"But there's something very important about this."
Perturabo's voice became somewhat stern.
"When you die in the virtual battlefield, your consciousness will be forcibly ejected. But that near-death experience, that fear of losing your life, that pain of watching your body being torn apart—all of it will be genuinely etched into your memory."
"This is not a game. This is the cruelest form of training. You will experience death again and again, feel pain again and again, until you can remain calm under this extreme pressure and make correct judgments."
The training field fell into a deathly silence.
Ten thousand Iron Warriors looked at each other. They were all veterans who had fought their way through blood and fire, having experienced countless life-and-death trials.
But experiencing countless deaths in a single day—this concept still exceeded their comprehension.
"This kind of prolonged, high-intensity virtual training may cause mental confusion, making warriors unable to distinguish between virtual and real boundaries. Some may break down during training, some may become numb to death, and some may lose themselves in the virtual world."
Perturabo made no attempt to hide the drawbacks of this training. This was a form of mental torture by a thousand cuts. The physical endurance of Astartes was beyond question, but their willpower still needed tempering—even though they were all elite warriors selected through the most rigorous standards.
"You must endure all of this. Only then can you truly master the new equipment and new powers I have given you."
"And only then will you have truly set foot on the path to becoming Iron Warriors."
"Regardless of how we were treated before, one thing is beyond doubt: you enjoy the finest modification technology and are sustained by countless resources from ordinary humans. We were born to fight in defense of humanity. Do not waste what you now possess."
The Iron Warriors fell silent. They understood what Father meant.
Perturabo issued commands to the Logic Engine through neural cables. The Iron Warriors felt a tremor pass through the training field.
An entrance appeared before them.
"You have no time to rest. Go. Training officially begins."
Perturabo's tone was somewhat cold as he watched his sons step one by one into the "mental purgatory" he had personally designed.
Calliphone and Andros's faces showed hints of reluctance. They knew all too well what this training meant, having witnessed firsthand how some Iron Guard had gone mad after being unable to endure it.
Though Perturabo had later stabilized their emotions with various medications, their mental states had inevitably developed certain problems.
"Abo..."
Calliphone's eyes were filled with worry, but seeing the light flickering in her brother's eyes, she knew he certainly didn't want his sons to suffer problems either—yet he was doing this anyway.
Calliphone couldn't bring herself to dissuade him further. She could only hope these warriors would safely complete the three months of training.
Ten thousand Iron Warriors formed orderly columns, walking one by one toward the hemispherical structure.
Standing at its entrance were dozens of Iron Rings, their electronic eyes flickering with cold light, guiding the warriors inside with emotionless synthesized voices.
Forrix was the first to enter. The interior of the training terminal was much larger than it appeared from outside.
The interior was filled with countless optical lenses and projection equipment. The floor consisted of concentric metal platforms, each containing hundreds of pod positions.
The space was vast—easily capable of accommodating millions of warriors for training.
Forrix could assess the capacity at a single glance.
Father's power once again exceeded his imagination. But everything Father did inevitably gave rise to some unpleasant thoughts, for no matter how he looked at it, Father seemed to have no loyalty whatsoever to the Emperor or the Imperium.
"Please lie down in the pod, Lord Forrix."
An Iron Ring stepped forward to interrupt Forrix's thoughts, pointing to the nearest pod.
Forrix walked over and examined the so-called "pod" carefully.
Rather than a pod, it was more like an open metal coffin. Its interior was lined with soft material. Above the head hung a helmet covered with probes, while the chest and limb positions featured countless tiny contact points.
Forrix lay down inside. For some reason, despite wearing his artificer power armor, he still felt a chill run down his spine.
As Forrix lay in the metal coffin, he felt those contact points conforming to his power armor's surface. Even through the armor, they somehow maintained unobstructed contact with him.
"Please put on the neural connection helmet."
The Iron Ring's synthesized voice came through.
He reached for the helmet, hesitated for a second, then placed it on his head.
Instantly, a slight stinging sensation came from the back of his neck. Then his consciousness plunged into darkness.
When he opened his eyes again, he found himself standing atop ruins.
The sky was gray, and heavy clouds continuously dropped acidic rain that hissed softly as it struck the ground.
In the distance, a city was burning. Black columns of smoke rose skyward, and countless corpses lay scattered among the ruined buildings—some in civilian clothes, some in Imperial Guard uniforms, and some belonging to a green, fierce-faced humanoid species.
Greenskins!
Forrix would recognize these creatures even if they were reduced to ash.
The Imperium frequently clashed with these beings during the Great Crusade.
They defied logic—savage, cunning, brutal, and madly obsessed with all forms of combat.
Every time they appeared, they brought severe losses to the Imperium.
The most famous encounters to date were the Rust Star Campaign and the Fire Wheel Campaign.
The Fire Wheel Campaign in particular—the Sixth Legion, even under their Primarch's leadership, had fought for five full years before completely eradicating the Greenskins from that system. The Space Wolves lost one-third of their numbers, and the Legion took considerable time before resuming the Crusade.
"First training battle: Greenskin Invasion."
A cold synthesized voice echoed in his mind.
"Mission objective: Hold the command post in the city center until reinforcements arrive."
"Friendly forces: One Imperial Guard company, one Astartes tactical squad."
"Enemy: Greenskins."
"Trainee role: Astartes tactical squad leader."
"Training begins."
The moment the voice finished, Forrix heard rumbling in the distance—the engine roar of Greenskin war vehicles, accompanied by their characteristic frenzied howling.
He instinctively looked to his side. Five Iron Warriors stood behind him. Three wore artificer power armor like his, carrying bolt guns with cold, determined eyes.
The other two wore Terminator armor with micro-missile systems on their backs. One wielded a multi-barreled heavy bolter, the other a massive melta.
He hadn't been told how many Greenskins there were, but this uncertainty made Forrix all the more cautious.
Forrix took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. This wasn't a real battlefield, but that sense of urgency, that pressure, that threat of death—it was terrifyingly real.
"Establish a defensive line."
He made a rapid assessment.
"Use the ruins as cover. Don't open fire until the Greenskins are within two hundred meters. Call the Imperial Guard to support our flanks. Request fire support from the Battle Fortress."
The six warriors quickly dispersed, each finding cover. Forrix crouched behind a crumbling low wall, raising his bolt gun to aim at the street ahead.
The rumbling grew closer.
The first Greenskin war vehicle burst around the corner—a monstrosity cobbled together from scrap metal, its hull covered in spikes, a crude cannon mounted on its roof.
A dozen Greenskin boyz crowded on top, waving choppas and shootas, howling madly.
Forrix pulled the trigger. The bolt shell screamed through the air, striking the vehicle's engine precisely.
A massive explosion turned the vehicle into a fireball, scattering Greenskins in all directions.
But this was only the beginning. More Greenskins poured in from every direction.
They emerged from the ruins, leaped from burning buildings, charged from behind collapsed walls. A green tide flooded the streets, the plaza, every inch of ground.
Forrix and his brothers fired frantically, each bolt claiming a Greenskin life.
The six formed a "strongman mountain" formation, pouring fire into the charging Greenskin horde.
The two Terminators swept through the Greenskin tide with their heavy bolter and melta, their force fields protecting the group from surprise attacks by Greenskin Mekboyz.
Perturabo brought the two to the training terminal.
Calliphone and Andros knew Perturabo was someone tough on the outside but soft on the inside. Though he cared more than anyone, he used cold words to keep everyone at a distance.
Perturabo could observe the simulated battlefields of every Iron Warrior in the training field.
The first three training sessions would allow the Logic Engine to analyze each warrior's strengths and characteristics, then generate customized training to develop their advantages.
But the Logic Engine wouldn't only select battlefields that played to their strengths—after all, reality offered no such luxury.
Space Marines didn't need to be omnipotent, but they had to adapt to and face all kinds of unexpected situations.
The Emperor had created each Primarch and Legion with different specializations, but during the Great Crusade, wars wouldn't conveniently match Legions to their designed strengths.
The Fourth and Seventh Legions, specialists in siege and fortification warfare, might encounter highly mobile enemies.
The Fifth and Sixth Legions, masters of rapid assault and raids, might face impenetrable siege warfare.
The Eighth and Nineteenth Legions, experts in assassination and infiltration, might find themselves in direct frontal combat.
And then there were unexpected situations that simply wouldn't follow pre-arranged plans.
On the battlefield, once the guns started firing, most plans were half-ruined. What remained was testing the commander's strategic vision and coordination abilities, along with the adaptability and capability of field officers.
Would they simply not fight when encountering such battles and situations?
That would make the Legions the Emperor had expended so much effort creating utterly useless.
Therefore, during the Great Crusade, unless the Emperor personally ordered otherwise, most Legions—despite having different specializations—would fight countless battles that didn't match their intended roles against whatever enemies and xenos they encountered.
This was something Perturabo had considered. The Iron Warriors' previous tactics had been too rigid, their thinking patterns sluggish, resulting in casualty ratios far exceeding other Legions in every battle.
They only fought by the book, never adapting. Before Perturabo's return, they had long been surpassed by the Imperial Fists in this regard.
Though Dorn was equally stubborn, he fully demonstrated the capabilities of a tactical commander on the battlefield. Not only was his execution of frontal tactics sound, but he also handled enemy defensive weaknesses and personnel deployment with ease.
To put it simply, facing the same war, where Dorn could maintain a casualty ratio of 1:10,000, the Iron Warriors would be at 1:100 or even worse.
This situation only improved significantly after Perturabo's return.
Perturabo couldn't tolerate his sons being so inflexible.
War wasn't fought by doctrine. How could life-and-death matters for an entire army be handled so rigidly?
Perturabo wanted to change this situation. The Iron Warriors' culture had to be corrected under his leadership. Otherwise, even with all the firepower support and the Prime-Forged surgeries he'd given them, their casualty rates wouldn't improve much.
Forrix's left hand was severed. In his right, he held his artificer power sword, its energy now depleted.
Forrix said nothing. He watched the Greenskins charging madly toward him, watched the three towering Gargants in the distance, watched the burning city and the corpses covering the ground. A deep sense of helplessness welled up within him.
His teammates' bodies lay on the ground—faces unrecognizable, bodies incomplete.
With just six Astartes, this situation was truly hopeless.
WAAAAGH!
Dozens of Greenskin Nobz, even taller than him, charged fastest, surrounding him with their crudely assembled weapons.
The activation of his Belisarius Furnace told Forrix he had reached his limit.
His body, filled with one final surge of strength like a last flicker before death, made Forrix cast aside everything. In this final moment, he only wanted to kill a few more Greenskins.
"AAAH!"
Forrix let out a roar and charged directly at the Greenskins.
His power sword in his right hand cleaved toward the nearest Nob. The artificer blade's material quality split the Greenskin and its weapon cleanly in half.
A spear pierced through both his left and right ribs from the side, puncturing his last remaining lung. Forrix coughed up blood that splattered on his attacker.
Forrix swept his sword horizontally, cutting through the shoulders of the three nearest Nobz.
The Furnace's activation let him ignore his current wounds, but that didn't mean he could turn the tide.
Dozens of Nobz swarmed him, forcing Forrix to the ground.
Forrix struggled continuously, but countless power hammers and axes had already reduced his skull to pulp.
That was an agony Forrix had never experienced before. Not the pain of battlefield wounds, not the suffering of the operating table, but something more pure, more absolute—a sense of annihilation.
He felt his consciousness being torn apart in that instant, ground down, completely destroyed.
Then everything faded to black.
When he opened his eyes again, he found himself back in the ruined city.
The sky was still gray, the rain still acidic, the distant city still burning.
He looked down at his hands—intact. He touched his neck—no wound.
"First training battle failed."
That cold synthesized voice echoed again.
"Cause of death: Head severed by power axe."
"Combat duration: Fifty-three minutes."
"Kill count: 22 Greenskin Nobz, 56,789 Greenskin Boyz, 13 Mekboyz (Gretchin not counted)."
"Overall assessment: Tactical judgment error. Should not have defended the command post to the death. Should have proactively broken out before enemy encirclement formed."
"Second training battle begins shortly."
"Enemy: Greenskins."
"Friendly forces: One Imperial Guard company, one Astartes tactical squad."
"Trainee role: Astartes tactical squad leader."
"Training begins."
Forrix froze for a second.
Then he took a deep breath, forcing himself to forget the death he'd just experienced, and began reconsidering his tactics.
"No defensive line this time."
He told the five warriors beside him.
"We strike proactively before the enemy encircles us. We need to take out their Gargants somehow. Only by destroying them do we have any chance of holding the command post."
That feeling of being crushed was real enough to drive one mad.
Forrix awoke from training. Twenty-two deaths had forced him out of the training state.
Perturabo had calculated precisely: for a Prime-Forged Astartes, training had to stop after twenty-two sessions, or there could be irreversible damage to their neural systems.
Forrix lay in the metal coffin, gasping heavily. Sweat soaked his entire body. His body was uninjured, but his consciousness and spirit were under immense pressure.
"My lord, you need rest, or your mind will suffer damage."
The Iron Ring's emotionless synthesized voice came from outside. Forrix emerged from the training terminal.
His steps were unsteady, his face terrifyingly pale, his eyes bloodshot, and in the depths of his pupils was an indescribable bewilderment.
A medical robot approached him. A syringe inserted into the back of his neck, and medication quickly spread through his body. Forrix felt as if he had come back to life.
Twenty-two battles. He'd experienced being beheaded by a Greenskin Nob, blown apart by artillery, crushed by a Gargant, rammed to death by a Battle Fortress, torn apart in melee, killed by his own mistakes, and doomed by delayed reinforcements.
He'd fought in ruined cities, on snow plains, in deserts, through jungles, aboard space stations, and on Greenskin warships.
These changing environments had been difficult to adapt to. Only in the final open-field battles—commanding his forces in direct confrontation with Greenskins and breaching massive Greenskin fortresses—had his performance been outstanding.
Forrix didn't know how to describe the feeling. The scenarios in the virtual training felt like real wars. The wounds he suffered and the experience he gained seemed to follow him back.
Clenching his fist, Forrix had a sense that if he encountered his pre-training self now, he could simply beat that former self to death with his newly developed body.
"My lord, according to the Logic Engine's analysis, you are better suited as a commanding officer leading offensive operations on the front lines."
The Iron Ring's voice came through. Forrix understood its meaning.
He wasn't suited to be a frontline warrior. He was better as a commander directing Legion forces in sieges and breaking enemy defenses.
"How much time has passed?"
Forrix asked. The time flow in training should differ from the outside, but not by much.
"Twenty-two Terran standard hours, my lord."
Forrix turned to look at the Iron Ring. What?
"Was there an error?"
Forrix knew there wasn't, but he asked anyway.
"My lord, the Logic Engine never errs."
The Iron Ring's cold voice left Forrix somewhat silent. Less than a day had passed?
"When can I resume training?"
he asked.
"In four Terran standard hours, you will begin your second round of training."
"During this period, you may return to your quarters to rest or stay in the rest area here. Nutrient supplements are available without limit. If you need anything, simply ask."
Every soldier within the base had their own room. The space was vast—Perturabo had hollowed out Olympia's interior like a termite.
Forrix chose not to return to his room. That simple twenty-square-meter space contained only a bed, a desk, and a chair—all designed to match his proportions, of course, custom-made for his body type. Every brother had the same.
There was no entertainment here. When they first arrived, the Iron Guard had told them as much.
The only forms of relaxation here were art and engineering—Perturabo's sole mercy to all under his rule.
The autocratic tyrant forbade anything beyond his control within his domain. He strictly limited freedom and democracy. The only path to achieving one's ideals was to follow his precise requirements. He stripped away rights that were inherent to every person.
The Iron Warriors didn't care about these things. The Imperium was far crueler than Father, and the people here lived far better than those under Imperial rule.
Better wasn't something to be measured by comparison, but compared to humans under Imperial rule, the people of Olympia lived in paradise.
Forrix sat in the training terminal's rest area. He ordered a serving of nutrient paste—the most delicious he'd ever tasted. Apple-durian flavor. He didn't know what the name meant, but he knew of Father's vast reach.
Forrix wolfed down three full plates of nutrient paste before that sense of disconnection from reality finally faded.
Outside the training terminal, Perturabo stood before a holographic display, silently watching every Iron Warrior's training data.
The Logic Engine presented the performance of ten thousand warriors in real-time before his eyes. Every tactical decision, every reaction time, every cause of death in every battle was precisely recorded and analyzed.
A full month had passed. He hadn't left this place, abandoning his research and hobbies. His fingers tapped lightly on his chair, his brow furrowed.
Sensing his sister's approaching presence, Perturabo's expression returned to its usual calm. He picked up a multi-barreled bolter design schematic and studied it closely.
Calliphone stood beside him, watching the constantly jumping numbers, a hint of sympathy in her eyes.
"Abo, they've been training continuously for half a month. Shouldn't they rest?"
She knew all too well what this training intensity meant.
Perturabo said nothing, only shaking his head.
"Their bodies can endure it. Their minds need to adapt. Twenty-two deaths is the limit, but they still have a long way to go before reaching that limit."
"They're improving, sister. Accumulating experience through death."
"This is a necessary process. They must learn to endure and adapt. If they don't change now, there won't be time for change on a real battlefield."
Calliphone knew her brother was right, but this training method was too cruel.
Andros suddenly spoke up from nearby.
"Brother, the Iron Guard are requesting to join the training."
Perturabo turned his head to look at Iron Guard commander Gino Constant.
His face bore a complex expression—envy of the Iron Warriors mixed with regret at his own inability to undergo further modification.
"Do you understand what this means?"
Perturabo asked.
"Yes, my lord."
"But they say that if they cannot grow stronger alongside their brothers, they have no right to continue standing behind you."
Perturabo said nothing more, only nodding.
"Your limit is fifteen times. Beyond that, your minds will very likely break down."
Gino's face showed a solemn expression.
"Yes, my lord."
He turned and walked toward the exit, his steps resolute.
"Know your limits."
As he was about to leave, Perturabo's cold voice came from behind.
Gino turned around. Perturabo wasn't looking at him, his gaze fixed on the holographic display above.
Calliphone and Andros nodded to him. Gino placed his hand over his heart in salute, then turned and departed.
Calliphone watched his retreating figure and said softly:
"Abo, are you really going to let the Iron Guard participate? Their bodies may not be able to handle it."
Perturabo didn't answer, only continuing to stare at the holographic display.
But Calliphone noticed the corner of his eye twitch slightly.
Inside the training terminal, Forrix was in his thirteenth training round.
This time, the battlefield was a hive world.
Massive metal structures pierced the clouds, layer upon layer of habitation zones stacked like honeycombs, with countless bridges and passages crisscrossing between buildings.
The enemy's identity had changed. No longer Greenskins or xenos, nor heretics or standard enemies—but rebels. Space Marine rebels.
Those who had once sworn loyalty to the Emperor had now raised the banner of rebellion, turning Imperial weapons against Imperial warriors.
Forrix didn't know why Father had designed such a scenario, but he had no time to consider it now, because artillery fire was already striking their position.
The force brother Legions used against each other was fiercer and more intense than any previous enemy.
"Berossus, report the situation."
Forrix asked through the Legion's internal communication channel.
"The third through seventh streets of the eastern district have been completely controlled by the rebels. They've established three defensive lines, each with heavy fire support."
Berossus's voice came through the communicator, calm and precise.
"The western district is slightly better. Rebel defenses are relatively weak there, but the buildings are denser, making urban combat likely—disadvantageous for us."
"The southern district is where the rebel command post is located. Their defensive force there is strongest—at least five thousand troops, plus armored units and Titan support."
"The northern district..."
"What's the situation in the northern district?"
Forrix pressed.
Berossus was silent for a second.
"The northern district is a civilian residential area. The rebels are using civilians as human shields. At least tens of billions of civilians are trapped there."
Forrix's brow furrowed deeply.
This was the hardest part. The traitors had found the Iron Warriors' weakness—they put civilians in front, making the Iron Warriors hesitate.
If they attacked by force, massive civilian casualties would result. If they ignored it, the rebels would use these civilians as supply lines and cover to continue their resistance.
"Change of plans."
Forrix finally made his decision.
"Abandon the northern district. Launch feint attacks simultaneously from the eastern and western districts to draw the rebel main force. Then the main force will strike from the southern district directly—a decapitation strike."
"But the southern district has the strongest defenses, and we don't have enough forces..."
Berossus said.
Forrix cut him off.
"I know."
His gaze became resolute.
"But this is our only chance. The rebels think we'll be cautious about the civilians, so they'll concentrate their main force in the northern district, waiting for us to walk into their trap. But they don't know we won't follow their script."
"Execute the order."
"Yes."
The twenty officers under his command fell silent for a moment, then responded in unison.
"Father, forgive my decision at this moment."
Forrix murmured in his heart.
Forrix personally led the Terminator company to assault the southern district.
He wore custom-modified Terminator armor, his entire frame reaching four meters tall. A war hammer hung at his waist, and the power fist on his right hand combined with the massive bolter in his left made him look like a siege engine.
As expected, the rebels were drawn by the feint attacks. Large numbers of troops surged toward the eastern and western districts, creating a brief gap in the southern district's defenses.
Forrix seized the opportunity.
He and his Terminator brothers cut a swath through the southern district.
The power of the specialized Terminators made them unstoppable in the now weakly defended southern district.
The roar of bolt guns echoed through narrow streets. The Terminators' battle formation operated like a precision machine, with every movement, shot, and cover action perfectly coordinated.
Rebel corpses paved their path forward.
Fifteen minutes. They had advanced forty kilometers, broken through five defensive lines, and killed over eight hundred rebels.
Then they encountered their true obstacle.
A solid fortress stood in their path—the final defensive line of the rebel command post.
The fortress walls were heavy armor plating covered with firing positions. Behind every gun port was a heavy bolter or anti-aircraft cannon.
Even in their Terminator armor, they couldn't survive such concentrated heavy fire.
Moreover, their movements were relatively slow now. They simply couldn't dodge that artillery. Previously, they'd relied on Terminator force fields and heavy armor to charge through, but that wouldn't work now.
Before the fortress was an open killing field with no cover whatsoever. Anyone attempting to cross would become a sitting target—especially wearing slow Terminator armor.
Forrix hid behind the ruins, observing the fortress, his brow deeply furrowed.
"We need orbital support, or have the Titan Legion back us up."
One warrior said quietly.
"But we don't have that. The Navy is currently engaged in battle. All heavy weapons and the Titan Legion are with the feint forces, pinning down the rebel main force."
Another warrior added.
Forrix's mind raced. Normally, he would have had tanks equipped with volcano cannons or deployed god-machines to level this place. But current circumstances didn't allow it—they didn't even have a single siege Dreadnought.
He looked toward the fortress's main gate. A wild thought arose in the mind of this warrior who had consistently performed with composure through multiple training sessions.
"Brothers, I have a plan."
"I need you to cover me to that fortress gate. I'll smash it open."
Everyone was initially surprised by Forrix's audacious plan, but considering their forces' current difficulties, they agreed.
To cover Forrix would require bait and multi-directional attacks—inevitably thinning their already small force of just two hundred.
"Iron within, iron without!"
They dispersed, their bolts continuously firing at the fortress defenders.
Thirteen followed Forrix. Their objective was clear: cover Forrix to the gate. It had to be fast, or their brothers wouldn't last long.
Artillery fire poured down on them. Terminator armor was torn apart like paper under this barrage.
Forrix moved quickly. Terminator armor was only relatively slow—it didn't mean they were actually slow.
"BREAK!"
Blue arcs of energy crackled across Forrix's specialized power fist—his custom weapon, three times larger than a standard power fist.
Currently, among the Iron Warriors, only Forrix had the strength to wield this battering ram of a power fist with such force.
The fortress gate cracked with massive fissures.
"YAAH!"
Forrix let out a roar, then slammed another punch into the already cracked gate.
BOOM!
The gate instantly burst open with a massive hole.
"Brothers, move!"
Forrix charged in first, plunging into the fortress interior. His remaining brothers rushed in behind him.
When Forrix saw his regrouped brothers, the two hundred-strong Terminator company had been reduced to fewer than a hundred.
"Avenge our fallen brothers!"
Forrix led his brothers in a rampage through the fortress interior.
Encountering a group of specially armored Astartes in such confined quarters was utter despair for the defenders. The rebels were slaughtered into complete disarray.
Looking at these grotesque purple-armored Astartes and yellow-black armored Astartes on the ground, Forrix's face showed disgust.
They quickly fought through the fortress's internal forces and reached their commander.
It was a yellow-black armored Astartes. On his shoulder pad was an icon of a fist with brass knuckles. Forrix didn't understand why these brothers had become this way.
But that commander was already charging toward him with a roar. Forrix drew the war hammer from his waist and sent him flying with one blow. This commander was skilled, but nothing special against him.
Forrix removed the rebel commander's helmet. As expected—horns growing from the head, sharp fangs, reeking of sulfur, body entirely crimson. This was a monster.
Compared to those disgusting purple aberrations, this was actually better.
Forrix brought his foot down hard, crushing the rebel commander's head and chest armor together.
"Mission complete."
Forrix's vision went black. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in the metal pod of the training terminal.
After the medical robot finished its injection, Forrix headed to the rest area. Before long, Berossus walked in.
They sat in silence, quietly eating nutrient paste and various supplements.
"Why would Father design such training scenarios?"
Berossus finally spoke.
Forrix had no answer. He didn't know either.
"Even if our cousins held different positions from us, they would absolutely never rebel, let alone transform into such defiled, filthy forms."
Berossus couldn't understand why Father would do this.
Could Father really be planning to... No, Father couldn't possibly be like that.
Berossus shook the thought from his mind. How could Father have such intentions? Impossible. Absolutely impossible.
"Father's actions always have his reasons behind them, Berossus. Stop guessing. If Father truly had any such intentions, he wouldn't need us to accomplish them."
Forrix spoke up, interrupting Berossus's thoughts.
Berossus fell silent. Through these days of training, he had come to recognize the terrifying capabilities of those Iron Rings and machine soldiers. During training, they had fought alongside these abominable intelligences and naturally understood their power.
Father wanted them to eventually fight alongside these abominable intelligences during the Great Crusade. The Iron Warriors could see that.
But Father clearly still had reservations. The use of abominable intelligences within the Legion was actually quite limited—only activated during crises or extremely difficult situations.
But what did those rebels mean?
During these days, every Iron Warrior had encountered situations involving these rebels. They still couldn't believe that their training targets would one day include their own brothers.
During this time, each of them had killed at least a hundred brothers who had once fought alongside them on the front lines.
Forrix slowly finished his nutrient paste, then stood up.
"Let's go, brother. It's time to continue training."
Berossus quickly finished his cherry-cheese flavored nutrient paste, grabbed several supplement bars and stuffed them in his mouth, then followed Forrix out of the rest area.
"Brother."
"Hmm?"
Berossus turned to look at his old friend.
"Don't overthink it. Don't disappoint Father. We are Iron Warriors."
Forrix placed his right fist over his chest.
"Iron within, iron without."
Berossus paused for a moment, then placed his right hand over his chest plate.
"Iron within, iron without."