"Why not give it a try? Perhaps we can succeed, can we not?"
The Emperor still wanted to push for it. After all, the Tyranid Swarm's capabilities were highly unique. If they succeeded, it would mean the Imperium would gain an exceptionally powerful combat asset—and more importantly, a terrifying new Legion.
They possessed the means to serve as a safety net, so the Emperor did not particularly care about Perturabo's anxieties.
"If it fails, this time we will have to personally erase the Eleventh. Moreover, we will likely have to purge whatever remains of his scions along with him. I will not take this risk with you."
Perturabo was a deeply cold and ruthless man. Back during the Imperium's first rebellion, when even El'Jonson and Russ could no longer bring themselves to carry out the purges, Perturabo had led the Abominable Intelligence and slaughtered his way from start to finish without a single hint of soft-heartedness.
Yet there were some things he simply refused to do. He would not allow his own brother to be destroyed in one of the Emperor's experiments when it was entirely avoidable.
"When I originally created you all, was it not precisely to forge a stable, highly efficient, and cost-effective military force? Right now, the Eleventh might be able to recover rapidly, and we have the two of us serving as a safety net. What are you hesitating for?"
The Emperor's fundamental nature of viewing everyone as mere tools remained completely unchanged. Now that the Imperium was once again beset by crisis, he lacked the patience to continue taking things slow to rescue his two scions.
"You can watch the Eleventh and the others go to their deaths, but I cannot. If you are going to say another word about what is 'worth doing for us,' I suggest you just stick to researching how to restore the Second and the Eleventh to normalcy. I will handle the rest."
Perturabo spoke expressionlessly as he manipulated a scalpel to slice open a massive Hive Tyrant.
"Our opportunity is right before our eyes! I have no intention of introducing Tyranid genetic material into the Eleventh; I am merely transplanting that consumption-evolution capability into him. I already succeeded back when you all were first created, and this time will be no exception."
The Emperor was always exceptionally bold, and compared to El'Jonson, he was far more unbothered by taboos. Even a radical like Perturabo appeared pale by comparison in front of him.
"What if something goes wrong with the Eleventh? Don't give me that horseshit about serving as a safety net. If something happens to the Eleventh, what then?"
This was what Perturabo truly cared about. The Emperor could see it as well, yet he remained stubborn in his intent.
"Then we erase him completely. I will do it with my own hands."
The Emperor's tone was thoroughly casual, yet it caused a chill to rise in the depths of Perturabo's heart. The Emperor was still the Emperor; a callous and ungrateful individual would never alter his core character, regardless of the circumstances.
"I originally thought that after the Great Crusade and the Retribution Crusade, you would have changed somewhat. As it turns out, a single Tyranid Swarm that we are fully capable of handling is enough to push you to the point of driving the Eleventh to his death."
Perturabo extracted the core of the Hive Tyrant—its massive neural processor. Losing even one of these units would leave a Hive Fleet thoroughly heartbroken for quite a long time.
It was well worth Forrix personally taking action to capture this big brute; its value was immense.
"What do you mean 'driving the Eleventh to his death'? Are you so certain I am bound to fail? You can doubt me on any other matter and I won't say a word, but you cannot question my competence in this field."
The Emperor grew somewhat displeased. He didn't understand politics, and his military strategy amounted entirely to applying overwhelming force to create miracles, but when it came to scientific research, he stood unchallenged as number one in the entire Imperium. Aside from Perturabo offering a modicum of skepticism, no one else would dare raise their voice—not even those arrogant Tech-Priests would utter a word of dissent.
How could the father of the Omnissiah possibly be incompetent!
"But I will not tolerate an experiment that carries a highly likely probability of leaving my brother unable to ever recover. We could clearly do without these unforeseen variables. As long as you can settle your mind, all of us believe you can restore them."
"No one is questioning your competence in scientific research, but I will not gamble on this probability. Even if you drag Malcador and our brothers over here, those who would truly support you in this would absolutely not exceed five people."
"But acting like this is a blatant display of zero trust in me. I can guarantee you, Perturabo, that nothing will go wrong with the Eleventh. I have absolute certainty that I can implant this capability into his body, even though we have only just preliminarily decoded it."
The Emperor truly possessed the competence and confidence to pull it off. The countless dark technologies concealed beneath the Himalayas were not merely remnants left behind by the Dark Age of Technology; the Emperor had personally forged a portion of them himself in the past.
"Trust me, and trust the Eleventh. We will not disappoint you."
The Emperor spoke earnestly. This was his most promising opportunity to cure the Eleventh thus far, and he refused to let it slip away.
Perturabo halted his movements, staring at the ordinary-looking man beside him, momentarily at a loss for words.
"Fine, go ahead then. However, let me warn you: if something happens to the Eleventh—"
"Absolutely nothing will go wrong!"
The Emperor cut off Perturabo's words, speaking with absolute finality.
Perturabo said nothing more, returning to the dissection and analysis of data among the vast pile of bugs. He had given his tacit approval.
This also meant he had become a participant in the endeavor, which was why he hadn't bothered to state any disclaimers beforehand. Let the Emperor give it a try; at worst, the two of us would provide the safety net together.
"My Lord, we have remained here for far too long. When can we transition from defense to offense? The False Emperor and his lackeys are currently shackled by their overextended territories. Aside from 'you' and the Lord of Iron, none of those Primarchs are a match for you."
"Why do we not strike out right now? At the very least, we can reclaim a portion of this galaxy first. That way, we will be better equipped to resist the False Emperor."
A blackened Dreadnought chassis walked into the administrative hall, speaking to "Roboute," who sat securely in the high seat processing government affairs.
When "Abaddon" first arrived here, he hadn't been particularly welcome. After all, he was merely a Dreadnought, and completely solitary.
Yet for reasons unknown, "Roboute" had taken him in and even handed over several gene-seeds of the "Sons of Horus" collected prior to "Abaddon," tasking him with rebuilding the Legion.
Now, having barely restored the numbers of a single Great Company, "Abaddon" was already growing restless, hastily rushing over to request deployment from "Roboute."
He had not forgotten the deaths of his father and brothers; his entire flight from the Imperium existed solely for the purpose of destroying it.
Yet after he arrived in this galaxy, "Roboute" had done almost nothing with him aside from allowing him to rebuild the Legion, essentially leaving him on the sidelines. Many "Ultramarines" and other remnants of the routed armies who had gathered here had mocked "Abaddon" in private.
"Abaddon" was not an open-minded individual, but he understood that when one is under another's roof, one must bow one's head. Thus, he had endured until now.
He wanted to "escape" this place now—no, escaping was the wrong word. If he truly lost the aid of this Dark King, he stood absolutely no chance of battling the Imperium relying solely on himself and this company comprised entirely of raw recruits.
What he envisioned was heading out into the wider galaxy to engage the Imperium in a battle of wits and might, while the Dark King continuously provided supplies from behind, allowing him to sustain his warfare through conquest.
He hadn't been entirely oblivious to outside events over the years; he had caught wind of the Imperium breaking up the Legions into Chapters.
"Abaddon" was confident that with his strength and the Legion under his command, they would absolutely never lose to any successor Chapter, unless they crossed paths with those exceptionally troublesome and powerful elite Chapters.
He was confident he could make the False Emperor's lapdogs suffer a devastating blow!
Yet "Roboute" acted as though he hadn't heard a single word, his hands continuously processing administrative documents without even raising his head, remaining entirely buried in the paperwork.
The title of Dark King was not earned in vain. Under such a climate, the Solar Segmentum of this galaxy remained firmly within his grasp, and dozens of Chapters—along with two parent Legions—were entirely incapable of breaking in. His rule remained absolute.
His competence was truly remarkable; handling the administrative affairs of an entire Solar Segmentum was a simple task in his hands.
As for "Abaddon's" petty schemes, the Dark King was thoroughly aware of them in his heart. However, regarding "Abaddon's" sheer urgency to lead his Legion out to their deaths, "Roboute" found it somewhat amusing.
"'Abaddon,' you currently number a mere three thousand warriors. How do you expect to contend with the Chapters of the Imperium?"
"Do not forget that the False Emperor's Chapters possess the aid of the Lord of Iron. The fleet of any random Chapter is not something you can resist. Even in a boarding action, your meager numbers would likely be completely slaughtered by those Abominable Intelligences in no time."
"When you lose, do not come weeping back before Father again, begging for a sanctuary to await your revenge. We will not waste any more gene-seed on you by then."
"Cato" spoke from the side with an air of "earnest advice."
Five hundred gene-seeds—that was the amount they had extracted to grant "Abaddon" back then. For him to produce three thousand "Luna Wolves" in just a few decades was sufficient proof that "Abaddon's" competence was not lacking.
Yet that did not mean "Cato" and his peers thought highly of "Abaddon." This individual was hypocritical and double-standardized. While his strength was by no means poor, he could hardly be considered top-tier among their ranks. If Father hadn't sought to rally those remaining broken remnants back then, a useless piece of trash like "Abaddon" wouldn't necessarily have been permitted to develop here.
Now, he even expected them to provide a safety net while he headed out to develop on his own, and by the looks of it, he wanted to incite them into heading out together as well, claiming all the benefits for himself.
"Quite a few people have already headed out, have they not, Regent?"
"If those individuals can do it, we can do the same! And we can do it even better!"
"Abaddon" was no fool. He knew "Roboute" and his faction had taken in their routed forces and granted them territory to develop precisely to use them as cannon fodder to draw enemy fire.
Low cost, high returns—he would not reject such a beneficial arrangement.
Without even granting them a few decent suits of power armor or proper weaponry, "Abaddon" knew this Dark King was acting exactly like the "Sons of Horus" of old, throwing brother Legions out to serve as meat shields.
Only this time, the target of the cannon fodder had changed.
"Abaddon" wanted to break free from this predicament, but he understood that first, he had to perform his duties flawlessly before he could erase the status of "cannon fodder" from the Dark King's eyes.
"I request permission to deploy, My Lord. Issue the order. Grant us a fleet and equipment, and the 'Sons of Horus' will become the sharpest blade under your hand. We will absolutely not disappoint you."
"Abaddon's" immense Dreadnought chassis knelt heavily onto the ground, the broken head housed within the Dreadnought sarcophagus speaking with absolute determination.
"Cato" originally intended to offer a few more words of "persuasion," but at that moment, "Roboute" raised his head, staring at the kneeling Dreadnought before him. "Cato" swallowed his words back down.
"Are you truly in that much of a hurry to go out and fight?"
His voice carried no discernible emotion, causing "Abaddon's" heart to turn somewhat grim.
"We do not spend a single moment without thinking of revenge, My Lord."
"Roboute" merely cast a single glance at "Abaddon" before returning to his paperwork, leaving "Abaddon" kneeling there.
Time trickled by slowly. "Abaddon's" Dreadnought chassis maintained its submissive kneeling posture. He could perceive the silent mockery originating from those bureaucrats and "Ultramarines," yet he paid it no mind, merely kneeling in silence.
Dignity had ceased to exist the very moment he was teleported out; at this moment, he desired nothing but vengeance.
"Are you certain you have thoroughly thought this through?"
Just as "Abaddon" was beginning to feel somewhat disheartened, the words echoing from above caused his heart to shudder once more. He hastily began to reply.
"My Lord, I am certain. The 'Sons of Horus' stand ready at all times."
"Then lead your brothers out. This shall be your objective."
A data-slate was tossed toward the towering Dreadnought. "Abaddon" caught it deftly with his massive power claw, subsequently opening the file.
The name and description of a certain Chapter displayed on the screen left the Abaddon within the sarcophagus somewhat surprised.
"If you lose, I expect you understand the consequences far better than I do."
The cold voice echoed, cutting off any words "Abaddon" might have uttered to beg for an alternate target.
"Cato" stepped forward, beginning to escort him out. "Abaddon's" shameless and stubborn temperament was what he detested most, even if he didn't harbor any inherent resistance toward such behavior—and could even be said to understand it perfectly well.
He simply detested "Abaddon" purely without rhyme or reason.
"Abaddon" walked out with a sense of unease. Staring at the Chapter description and target location displayed on the data-slate, he wondered for a moment if he had acted somewhat too hastily.
The screen clearly displayed the Chapter:
Sons of the Phoenix. Chapter Master: Akurduana.
This was undoubtedly an exceptionally formidable opponent. The Emperor's Children inherently possessed immense individual combat capability, and for Akurduana to carve his way out among them—and serve as the First Sword of the Court—served as a testament to his sheer might.
"Abaddon" hadn't expected that his very first return battle would require him to face such a powerful adversary. It ran entirely counter to his designs.
Shouldn't a newly established Legion be assigned a reasonable target first? Why did he have to face such an opponent the moment he stepped out?
Were they targeting them?
To what end? What was left of a crippled Legion for them to target?
The Dark King's magnanimity would not be so petty.
"Abaddon" took a deep breath. Forget it, let it be difficult. If he performed well this time, perhaps he could wring even more gene-seed out of this place to construct the Legion.
For Horus! For the Legion!
Give it everything!