"I may not be some saint, but at the very least, I gave them food, drink, clothing, and shelter—and every single standard put them at a living level that only well-to-do families would have enjoyed in the past."
"I know my conditions and policies are indeed quite strict, and I can understand that a few ungrateful wretches might have warped mindsets; I don't care about that."
"But why did the people of three whole sectors submit so easily? Those Chaos traitors didn't even use dark rituals or perform a single bit of Chaos corruption—they persuaded them purely with cheap talk."
Perturabo sat in the throne room, holding a cup of hot tea in his hands. Beside him were Vulkan and the Emperor, who were munching on fried chicken, burgers, and marshmallows, while Guilliman and Malcador enjoyed their afternoon tea while processing administrative affairs.
Vulkan had just returned from off-world, and everyone had finally scraped together some rest time. They were gathered here enjoying a rare moment of brotherly affection and father-son harmony, but trouble had to break out right in the galactic region under Perturabo's charge.
The planetary governors of three whole sectors had joined forces to commit treason. Spurred on by some minor Tzeentchian daemons and a handful of traitors, these people simply followed along and rebelled.
Even those traitors were utterly shocked during the subversion process; they found it hard to imagine that the populations of these worlds could be so effortlessly incited to turn coat.
Back on the front lines, they had been beaten so badly they couldn't even fight back, yet who knew the Empire's internal governance was this fragile?
Just like that, in less than five years, three entire sectors were dragged down into the mire by them. The traitors had originally planned to quietly ensnare even more people, but the first batch of fools they subverted couldn't hold their composure, taking the lead to openly launch a rebellion.
Honestly, Ahriman truly couldn't fathom why these fools were so confident, daring to revolt out in the open with such minuscule strength.
Of course, that in itself wasn't much, but what truly gave Ahriman a headache was that his master plan had been completely disrupted. He had intended to covertly expand the rebellion across ten sectors before using it as leverage to bargain with the Primarchs.
Instead, this band of fools had ruined his blueprint—utterly useless at achieving success, yet more than capable of ruining everything!
If it weren't for the Night Lords already being deployed to slaughter everyone down to the last soul, with their spirits being collected by the Lord of Iron, Ahriman would never have let those idiots off so easily.
As for this entire incident, Perturabo was the one who felt most deeply wounded.
He never considered himself a good person and certainly qualified as a tyrant, but from start to finish, the conditions he offered were absolute abundance. He possessed the capability to grant people a better life, and he had indeed delivered on that promise.
Even if the execution lacked grace, in today's Warhammer universe, what he achieved was by no means inferior to any ruler over the millennia.
Because he ensured everyone was fed, clothed, educated, and provided with ample avenues for upward mobility without fear of being monopolized by entrenched power.
He couldn't comprehend why these people would turn coat so effortlessly.
"Because you did not liberate their minds, brother. It's as simple as that. I am not saying you mistreated them, but you did clamp down on them with an iron grip intellectually and spiritually."
Guilliman grasped the essence of the event at a single glance, even though he too felt those mortals were far too ungrateful and ignorant.
"Physical hardship may make life miserable, but spiritual numbness and outright prohibition only breed severe resentment. They are not free, brother; I think you realize this now."
"You granted them material wealth, but you locked them into another cage."
"I am not blaming you. This incident was purely because the populations of these sectors happened to be far too ignorant and greedy, but perhaps it serves as a reminder that our current system needs to change. Perhaps we ought to take action."
Guilliman could still maintain an objective attitude when facing this matter, which was far better than the Emperor and Malcador.
Because those two believed anyone who rebelled should simply be converted into servitors and shipped off as slaves to Forge Worlds or to dig in the mines of Mining Worlds.
The one who reacted most strongly to this was Vulkan, soft-hearted as he was. He had tried to dissuade Perturabo from sending Curze over at the time, because Curze would bring nothing but endless slaughter once he found out, whereas going himself might have spared some innocent, coerced mortals.
Yet whether it was Perturabo, whose vision was clouded by fury, or Curze, who was consumed by a twisted sense of justice, both felt that even this was far too lenient—they shouldn't have held back so much back then.
Not to mention, even Sanguinius, who was as magnanimous as Vulkan, didn't feel Curze's actions were excessive this time. The sharp-tongued Khan even remarked that not building skull pyramids or lighting human torches out of them was already an act of pure mercy.
The other Primarchs had all heard of the matter as well, and going by their personal inclinations, some of them would have done things far worse than Curze.
Perturabo, their good brother and the Warmaster of the Empire—how much painstaking effort had he dedicated to the entire Empire? How much had he done for the survival and development of current humanity? Every brother knew the score.
These damned ungrateful wretches enjoyed so many benefits, yet they were duped by a few sweet words from Chaos traitors. They were, quite simply, an uncultivated rabble beyond redemption.
Lorgar, the fanatic preacher, was also in a towering rage over this, swearing not only to station Ecclesiarchy personnel across all worlds but also to order all warbands under his command to relentlessly hunt down those traitors.
Grey Knights were recently being mass-produced on Olympia and in the Solar System, their numbers steadily approaching those of an old Legion.
Now that the traitors had committed such an atrocity, walking away scot-free without paying a price was entirely out of the question.
The culprit, Ahriman, was placed under a galaxy-wide warrant, with Thousand Sons Chapter Master Magnus personally launching a manhunt, unleashing terrifying prophetic psyker abilities to track him down.
Cornered with no way out, Ahriman had no choice but to flee into the territory of the Dark King, Roboute, seeking asylum.
On that very day, nine parent Legions and a hundred and thirty Chapters ignited another massive war.
Much of the foundation Roboute had painstakingly built over the years was laid to waste. Ultimately, he had to take the field himself to fight off the trio of Primarchs—Magnus, Corax, and Curze—in a one-against-three clash before the conflict was brought to a halt.
Meanwhile, during the chaos of the war, Ahriman somehow uncovered a pathway into the Webway and darted inside, vanishing without a trace.
Yet the bounty on his head remained active. Numerous Chapters had already commenced sweeping operations inside the Webway across various sectors; sooner or later, they would drag this traitor out.
"Why make it so complicated? I think you're just too soft-hearted, Perturabo. You act all tough and arrogant every day, but deep down, your heart is softer than anyone's."
"You run your mouth all day about not caring about this or that, but when real trouble hits, you care more than anyone and take it harder than anyone."
"Calling yourself a tyrant, a bastard who robs people of their freedom—what kind of tyranny is that? If it were up to me, I tell you, they would never have the energy left to revolt today."
The Emperor mindlessly licked his marshmallow off to the side, unable to fathom why such a minor issue could leave Perturabo so utterly despondent. It was clearly a straightforward matter to resolve and a textbook case of rebellion.
Nobody else gave a damn, yet Perturabo acted as if he had suffered a devastating blow—he hadn't even looked like this back when they were clashing with Chaos.
It was just a rebellion. The Empire had seen sea-loads of rebellions; when one popped up, didn't you just suppress it? Kill those who needed killing, turn those who needed turning into servitors—simple as that.
The Emperor couldn't understand why Perturabo was acting like this, and by the looks of it, Guilliman seemed to have ideas of his own as well.
As the absolute moral bottom of human thought, the Emperor naturally couldn't grasp the significance behind this matter, nor how heavy a toll it took on Perturabo.
"I just didn't want to become someone like you, which is why I expended so many resources to construct those planets."
"I gave them lavish conditions, better with each passing day. Even during those years when the fighting with the traitors was at its fiercest—when we were fighting for so long in the Warp—I had already agreed with sister beforehand not to let their quality of life drop, because a more abundant life represents hope."
"Yet this is the result my efforts brought back—a pack of scum who didn't even bother to put up a front! Using the welfare benefits I provided them, they marched under the banner of 'clearing corrupt advisors' just to come and kill me!"
Perturabo's eyes were slightly bloodshot. Deep inside the Warp Daemon Forge, countless daemon overseers and Iron Warriors looked on coldly as innumerable human souls were pinned down onto electrified assembly lines, the weapons in the daemons' hands hardly stopping for a single second.
Miserable shrieks drowned out the earlier sorrow of the daemon slaves. These souls would never be erased; they would remain in this state forever, their pain perception amplified so that the severe trauma inflicted upon their bodies in this moment would be deeply engraved into their memories.
Eternal agony would accompany them until the Lord of Iron finally decided to pay them no more mind, tearing them apart to be stuffed into various Daemon Engines and Helbrutes, multiplying their suffering even further.
"I think it might be because you were usually too lenient with them, brother. Perhaps you could draft some strict laws to govern them, or send more troops over to garrison those sectors."
"I recall that this time, it was precisely because the personnel we dispatched were assassinated by those traitors that they found an opening. Perhaps we could have some Astartes send small squads to garrison certain planets, just setting a fixed rotation term."
Even Vulkan didn't dare push his luck at this moment, swallowing back his thoughts that mental oppression might have been one of the root causes, and instead offered a constructive suggestion.
To put it plainly, this incident occurred because traitors like the Thousand Sons were somewhat overpowered—their psychic sorcery and assassination methods were top-tier, so even if someone discovered them, they couldn't do much about it.
The Empire was simply too vast; a few tens of millions of Space Marines genuinely couldn't oversee every corner. No matter how elite the Imperial Army was, they were still mortals at the end of the day, lacking the capability to contend with Space Marines.
"Besides, our methods could also be a bit gentler, there's no need to——"
"Vulkan, stop causing trouble and eat your food."
Seeing Vulkan about to say more, Guilliman picked up a piece of fried chicken and stuffed it into Vulkan's mouth, cutting off his train of thought.
Vulkan glanced at the solemn Guilliman and could only lower his head obediently, taking huge bites of watermelon and fried chicken.
"It seems we're still letting these people eat too well, Perturabo. Perhaps we can have the Adeptus Arbites levy more taxes, forcing them to work harder. We can make budget cuts to their salaries and welfare; under appropriate survival pressure, their minds won't have room for extra thoughts, and rebellions will naturally be nipped in the bud."
Malcador's solution was simple and brutal—at its core, it was still exploitation, just harsher than Perturabo's approach.
When humans faced their living environment, surviving was priority number one, and everything else came second. Perturabo was letting them eat too well now, so let them go hungry first, then heap pressure onto them. As long as they still wanted to live, they naturally wouldn't have the spare energy to entertain foolish notions.
Perturabo remained silent, gazing down at the clear tea in his hand, which was produced from an agricultural world under his command.
He originally disliked such things; frivolous luxuries were never within his consideration. Land should naturally be used to grow food crops, but the Empire hadn't lacked food for a long time, and after all these years, he had wanted to relax a bit.
Just recently in the Olympian system, his own turf had started growing a few cash crops that could be harvested bi-weekly. They had just produced a batch of tea leaves that tasted decent enough; though Perturabo couldn't discern any subtle nuances in it, he simply felt that life was showing more promise.
Yet before he could finish a few sips of tea, disaster struck.
"We cannot operate like that, brother. These people revolted precisely because of their weak ability to withstand pressure. If we implement a heavy-pressure policy, it might backfire."
Guilliman held the opposite view. His Ultramar had rarely encountered such issues; a proper governance model was the true foundation for humanity's sustained development.
The high-pressure policies of the old Empire and Perturabo's terrifying ideological confinement mode could no longer be used; they had to be reformed step by step.
Otherwise, similar incidents might be exploited by traitors and ambitious careerists. The Empire had a grand foundation now; it could no longer act as recklessly as it did in the early days of the Great Crusade.
A rule relying on brute force and tyranny could not endure; it still depended on reasonable order and abundant material conditions.
The Empire did not lack material conditions today, but what was taken from the people must be used for the people. Although these material foundations were brought into existence through the conditions Perturabo provided, it was undeniable that the ones producing them were the mortals themselves.
Living such exhausting lives every day, even though their material standards were constantly rising, their physically and mentally exhausted bodies couldn't actually enjoy those benefits.
An eighteen-hour workday across three daily fixed points was their routine, occupying nearly ninety percent of their lives and inevitably causing their thinking to grow rigid and resentful.
This incident was merely a fuse; what truly ignited these powder kegs was the preceding mental confinement.
Freedom was something that must be granted within the boundaries of rules; otherwise, even if material conditions were sufficient, a perpetually strained nervous system would eventually cause people to snap.
In comparison, those whose bodies couldn't take it would simply die, and their remains could be turned into corpse-starch to supplement food supplies. But for those whose minds broke down, there was no telling what they might do short of committing suicide.
Guilliman had recognized the flawed logic of the Emperor and Malcador long ago; he was the only one who realized this and was willing to make a change.
Perturabo was different; he simply believed he could do better.
"Then what do you propose we do?"
Perturabo remained silent, while the Emperor looked at Guilliman and asked.
"Reforms, but unlike military reforms, we must proceed quietly this time. Furthermore, we must disseminate art and culture—just like the opera houses and sculptures on Olympia, the prose poetry of Chogoris and Prospero, the etiquette of Chemos——"
"We must quietly promote these things down to the masses, at least giving them some form of spiritual entertainment."