Chapter 153: Perturabo Was Infuriated to the Point of Laughter |
The enemy's offensive boiled like a volcano, their scorching will to fight threatening to swallow the entire battlefield.
To complete the final ritual, the Iron Warriors had to abandon certain tactics, using their own deaths to draw the Dreadwing's attention away.
Yet they remained utterly perplexed as to why these Dark Angels were fighting like madmen. Their assaults rained down like a furious storm, as if they wanted to completely evaporate their souls and leave not a single trace behind.
Boom—
The barricade was cleaved in two by volkite weaponry. Gushing streams of fire formed a blazing path, the scorching flames licking the air and roasting the surrounding metal until it glowed red-hot.
The Warlord struggled to his feet. His melted armor clung tightly to his skin, and the agonizing pain of the burns forced him to clench his jaw.
His faceplate had shattered long ago, revealing a scar-riddled visage, but the unyielding flames of defiance still burned within his eyes.
He looked up, catching sight of the enemy forces advancing once more. Their steps were steady and ruthless, moving like a heartless killing machine. He bent his knees slightly, attempting to steady himself, only to be violently tackled to the ground by a figure bursting through the curtain of fire.
The slaughter had progressed to the point where the remaining Iron Warriors had been all but wiped out under the endless barrage of firepower. Only scattered sounds of resistance and the deafening roar of explosions echoed across the battlefield.
"You are finished!"
The Warlord sneered, his raspy voice dripping with mockery.
Their ritual was finally complete. The Lord of Iron would receive their gift, and his gaze would once again descend upon them.
A ferocious grin spread across the Warlord's lips.
The Dreadwing marine spared him a cold glance, his eyes entirely devoid of emotion, as if he were staring at a corpse that had long since rotted.
He raised his boot and stomped down hard. The Warlord's head burst apart like a crushed melon, splattering blood and brain matter across the charred earth.
They had never needed to deal with the so-called ritual in the first place; instead, the Iron Warriors' sheer arrogance had only facilitated their own slaughter.
The Dreadwing's gaze swept across the battlefield before finally settling on the fully-formed Warp rift, a flash of disdain gleaming in his eyes.
As for the supposed ritual...
Even though he was incredibly annoyed by that Thousand Sons Sorcerer, a warrior of his vast experience had to admit that the man was an expert who far surpassed the vast majority of psykers.
Upon the ritual platform, the rifts finally linked together seamlessly and slowly began to submerge into the Empyrean. The gloomy light grew increasingly radiant, threatening to swallow the entire space.
The Prophet of Torment clenched his fists tighter and tighter, his knuckles turning white from the strain.
As the psykers within the Iron Warriors' combat ranks, they were responsible for executing all Chaos rituals within the warband, in addition to commanding the Daemon Engines. At this moment, cold sweat coated his forehead, yet a fanatical light burned brightly in his eyes.
While the last three squads of Iron Warriors wielding boarding shields used their own flesh and blood to block the Dreadwing's bombardment for him, he had finally completed the ritual amidst the artillery fire.
Phew...
A triumphant smile graced his lips, as if he could already envision the Lord of Iron's approval.
Ultimately, under the final surviving Prophet of Torment's eager gaze, that magnificent soul circuit was firmly grasped by a hand clad in gold and crimson gauntlets.
"???"
The Prophet of Torment's eyes widened in absolute shock.
'Absolutely absurd. Just what exactly is this soul circuit? It cannot be touched by either the material universe or the Warp; it strictly requires a ritual to assign it a specific signature.'
Rameses gripped the soul circuit. It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to just snatch it directly, but this creation was rather miraculous—it was utterly untouchable unless a connection to the Warp was established first.
In layman's terms, this ritual was constructed by the Iron Warriors to add a signature to the soul circuit. Only then could Perturabo touch the artifact and receive it; the rest was just a standard, simple sacrifice technique.
Fortunately, he had acted fast enough to alter the signature directly. By piggybacking on the Iron Warriors' ritual, he effortlessly secured the handling rights to the soul circuit without expending a single ounce of his own energy.
The rift shrank rapidly, but the Prophet of Torment, looking as if he had just seen a ghost, remained frozen in sheer bewilderment.
A surge of will, accompanying the still-active ritual, suddenly descended upon his physical form.
"Lord Perturabo!"
He cried out in pleasant surprise, his words brimming with disbelief.
"Is it really you?"
Rameses swiftly sealed the Warp rift. He casually swatted away a few minor daemons, ensuring that no Warp entities could reach their claws through, and then immediately scrubbed away all information pertaining to their group of four.
He just hadn't changed the contact address.
He scratched his head in confusion.
What was wrong with Perturabo? Why would he even bother answering a prank call from his own descendants?
Slash!
Arthur's figure flickered into existence like a phantom. His blade sliced through the air, instantly decapitating the Prophet of Torment. The severed head rolled across the ground, the remnants of fanaticism and astonishment still lingering in its lifeless eyes.
The surrounding Dreadwing marines quickly closed in. Taking advantage of the Iron Warriors' momentary stupor, they commenced their final mopping-up operations.
"Is it handled?"
Arthur sheathed his sword, his gaze sweeping over the battlefield.
"I have it. Analyzing it will require some time later."
Rameses nodded, his hand tightly clutching the magnificent soul circuit as a thoughtful gleam flashed across his eyes.
"Then let us withdraw."
Arthur looked at the Dark Angels gathered around them.
"Scrub our traces. We evacuate in three minutes."
His voice echoed through the comms channel. The Dark Angels sprang into action instantly, systematically and rapidly sanitizing the warzone.
Romulus's notification had already arrived. He was currently swamped with organizing affairs across various planets, dizzy with his usual daily workload. For the frontline battlefield, he could only provide a bit of data support.
As a result, Dantioch had advanced far too quickly, driving the enemy back as easily as spinning a top. Beating Iydris was like beating a helpless child.
Every single tactic had been perfectly predicted, and there was a massive disparity in troop strength. It would take at most five minutes before the enemy was strung up on their own banners.
—
"?"
Within the Iron Blood, the Primarch of the Iron Warriors, Perturabo, suddenly sensed a ripple of connection emanating from the depths of his soul.
His brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of impatience crossing his eyes.
Ever since his Daemonic Ascension, although he had lost the ability to produce gene-seed, the Lord of Iron had established a much deeper Warp connection with his descendants. This link acted as an invisible bond, forging another layer of communication between him and his dim-witted children.
However, this more profound perception did not change Perturabo's opinion of his offspring.
On the contrary, he found them increasingly foolish and dense, to the point of genuine disgust.
Because that was exactly what they were!
If Dantioch were here, things would absolutely never be like this.
The instant he detected this connection, a profound sense of annoyance welled up within Perturabo's heart. His fingers unconsciously drummed against the armrest of his throne, producing dull, heavy thuds.
Did those exiled fools lack even the slightest shred of self-awareness?
Could they not even manage a performance akin to Forrix's?
Still, the Lord of Iron did not outright reject the connection.
Things in the Warp had been proceeding smoothly as of late. Quite a few Chaos warbands had sought him out to negotiate trades.
Rumor had it that Vashtorr's production lines had run into issues; the contract-obsessed "Machine God" seemed to have encountered a spot of minor trouble.
He had failed to even fulfill his most recent orders.
This caused many Chaos warbands to defect to Perturabo. Their reliance on the war machines he provided would ultimately be converted into his own strength, pushing him one step further down the path of malicious artifice.
Evidently feeling rather pleasant, the Lord of Iron decided to see just what his descendants were up to and why they were contacting him in such massive numbers.
"Lord Perturabo, your most loyal children have procured unprecedented forge materials for you. We wish to return to your banner and conquer even more in your name."
The voice transmitting over the connection was laced with subservience and pleading, much like a mortal begging for a deity's mercy.
Very well, let us see what you are capable of.
Perturabo's interest was piqued. If they could genuinely impress him, he wouldn't mind lending some guidance to these foolish offspring.
His gaze pierced through the mists of the Warp, fixing upon the proffered sacrifice.
Hmm, an ancient Aeldari soul circuit. The same creation that once allowed those Psychic Titans to operate without limits?
The Primarch's superhuman memory swiftly identified the origins of the sacrifice.
The corners of his lips curled slightly, forming a faint smile.
Excellent. He was indeed somewhat interested.
He then focused his perception on the ritual itself. Complex Chaos runes began to flash around him in the form of raw data.
He possessed inherent, intuitive knowledge and boasted a genius far surpassing that of his brother Primarchs; his study of Chaos was no exception.
Lorgar was still searching for his gods, entirely submerged in his own twisted dogma.
My four blinded brothers have already surrendered everything they are to the Evil Gods. They have no future.
But as for me—
Perturabo thought with immense pride.
I have discovered the path to ascend even higher, and I am marching firmly upon it.
Then, he received the fruits of the ritual.
Fantastic. The recipient signature had been altered, and he didn't even know who had changed it.
Perturabo's iron-clad features visibly cooled into absolute indifference.
He knew it. These brainless imbeciles couldn't do a single thing right.
Yet he kept his temper in check, preparing to see exactly what his idiotic sons were busy failing at.
Squelch!
This was the perspective of the Prophet of Torment, his head cleanly shorn off by an invisible blade.
Kaboom!
This was the perspective of an Iron Oath Squad, mercilessly surrounded and slaughtered by Dark Angels Dreadwing marines adorned in crimson and black.
Something was not right.
Although Perturabo could hardly be bothered to meddle in Imperium affairs anymore, he wasn't so negligent as to ignore the Space Marine Chapters of his brother Primarchs. He even possessed contingency plans for dealing with them.
He might not have had much interest in actively executing those plans, but that didn't stop him from drafting them.
At the very least, he was fully aware of the current color scheme of the Dark Angels.
Perturabo hurriedly traced backward through the memories of his descendants.
Vwoosh—
This was the perspective of someone being pulverized by the shockwave of a Grand General Cannon without the slightest warning.
"?"
Perturabo's face was painted with complete confusion.
Had these morons gotten lost in the Warp and drifted back to the 30th Millennium?
He quickly dismissed the hypothesis.
A connection this stable indicated that their timelines were completely synchronized. Although time in the Warp was chaotic, individual temporal flow remained consistent. At the very least, Perturabo was certain he was existing in the 40th Millennium.
A sliver of investigative curiosity began to rise from the depths of his heart.
Perturabo focused his gaze on his still-living offspring, casually toying with a furnace that imprisoned an Undivided Chaos Greater Daemon.
Let me see just what in the Warp you fools are up to.
—
"Who is that?! Who is that?!"
Iydris lost his mind before the command table, slamming his hands furiously against its surface. The heavy impacts sent data slates and tactical blueprints sliding to the floor. His eyes were heavily bloodshot, his facial features contorted like a wild beast trapped inside a cage.
His fleet had been entirely annihilated, and his sacrifices had been intercepted.
And now, none of his warband would be spared either.
Everything predicted.
Absolutely everything had been anticipated!
Are you the Iron Warrior, or am I?!
Where was the unyielding ferocity of the Imperial Fists? Where was their signature fearlessness?
You should have crashed down like an indomitable heavy fist, allowing me to counterattack in the true manner of an Iron Warrior to prove that Perturabo's sons are far superior to you!
Not push forward steadily like a ruthless meat grinder! Not crush me slowly and relentlessly like an encroaching hydraulic press!
Fighting exactly like an Iron Warrior!
Fighting exactly like Dantioch.
"Dantioch... it is definitely Dantioch!"
Iydris murmured, repeating the name over and over like a man possessed. His voice was low and hoarse, a guttural roar seemingly squeezed from the deepest recesses of his throat.
He would never, ever forget that bastard.
He had lost the siege of Fort Schadenhold. Fine. He was still alive, he was still reflecting on his failures, and he could become even better.
The Primarch had told him he was inferior to Dantioch. Fine. He could learn. He could adapt and become just like Dantioch.
He had gathered every single scrap of Dantioch's operational records he could find. He had studied them maniacally, analyzing the strategies of a dead man.
He wanted to become more like Dantioch.
But why did he have to play the role of a corpse?
Iydris was still evolving, while Dantioch was dead and gone!
He had wanted to stand before his Primarch and declare: I did it! I have accomplished what Dantioch could not! I have surpassed him!
But was he truly dead?
Iydris clutched his head with both hands, his fingers digging deep into his scalp as if trying to tear his own skin off. His gaze was locked onto the casualty reports, the light in his eyes rapidly growing unfocused.
"No... impossible... this is impossible..."
His voice trembled, laced with an undisguisable blend of terror and despair.
The lighting inside the command center flickered erratically, casting sharp, sinister shadows across his pale, contorted face.
Iydris's mind relentlessly replayed the tactical minutiae of the engagement. Every maneuver bore the unmistakable signature of Dantioch; every command was so terrifyingly precise it suffocated him.
He knew the intricate deployments and endless nuances like the back of his hand, so why couldn't he counter them?
Why was he utterly powerless to fight back?!
After so many years, those nightmare-like memories had been violently reawakened and dragged out right in front of him.
His breathing grew ragged, his chest heaving violently. It felt as though a massive boulder were crushing his heart, robbing him of oxygen.
The Siege of Fort Schadenhold.
Attacker, Iydris: The 51st Expeditionary Fleet, the 13th Grand Battalion of the Iron Warriors, ten thousand Astartes, plus a Titan Legion.
Defender, Dantioch: A meager squad of thirty Astartes and a contingent of mortal auxiliaries.
Duration: 366 days.
He failed to win.
The Siege of the Iron Oath Fortress.
Attacker, Dantioch: Black Templars, Crimson Fists, Executioners, four thousand Astartes supported by a Grand General Cannon, scattered Dark Angels, and Aeldari Harlequins.
Defender, Iydris: Two thousand Iron Warriors and a Titan Legion.
Duration: 13 hours.
He failed to hold it!
Defeated cleanly and efficiently, without the slightest ability to retaliate.
Furthermore, his enemy had been commanding the Imperial Fists!
Endless waves of humiliation churned within Iydris's heart, as if an invisible blade were meticulously slicing away his pride.
He could not accept losing to Dantioch. He could not accept losing to the Imperial Fists. And he absolutely could not accept both of those realities occurring simultaneously!
But reality was the cruelest slap in the face. It struck his cheek with bone-shattering force, using ice-cold facts to prove one singular truth—
Even after ten thousand years, you are still inferior to him.
To make matters worse, all of this was unfolding directly beneath the Primarch's gaze.
Yes, right before the eyes of Lord Perturabo.
"If Dantioch were here, he would never ask such an idiotic question! None of you can compare to him!"
Iydris lowered his head, feeling that connection rooted deep within his soul. Perturabo's past reprimands surfaced from his memories. Those frigid, razor-sharp words wrapped around his heart like venomous vipers, suffocating him entirely.
"..."
The Primarch did not speak, but Iydris could distinctly feel his gaze.
Staring intently at his complete and utter failure!
Indescribable emotions festered in his chest. Iydris could clearly sense the Primarch reading his thoughts, examining the exact sequence of events that had led to this moment. That sensation of being completely and transparently analyzed plunged him into an icy abyss.
"No!!!"
Iydris's expression went slack, his eyes brimming with sheer disbelief and absolute despair.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. The script had not been written this way!
I have spent ten thousand years evolving and improving. How could I possibly be weaker than Dantioch?!
I embraced the blessings of the Empyrean! I fought tooth and nail in the swirling maelstroms of Chaos for countless centuries! How could I be weak?!
His slack face rapidly twisted into an expression of sheer lunacy. His bloodshot eyes bulged, and the corners of his mouth contorted into a hideous, macabre smile.
"No! I haven't lost yet! I haven't lost!"
He grabbed his strategist beside him—a man who had already been battered so severely by the constant failures that he had lost the ability to think.
The strategist's body was limp, like a hollow husk devoid of a soul. Particularly when the Primarch's gaze descended upon them, both the strategist and the honor guards had become as listless as corpses, completely devoid of vitality.
"We haven't lost!"
Iydris bellowed, his voice echoing across the desolate battlefield, dripping with hysterical madness.
"Grab your weapons! We are going to find him, and we are going to kill him!"
Forged by ten millennia of bitter trials and empowered by the blessings of the Chaos Gods, he could certainly strike down that damned bastard. He would prove, directly in front of his Primarch, that he was infinitely superior to Dantioch.
"Right... yes, right. We are going to kill him."
The strategist responded like a wooden puppet. He blindly hoisted his weapon and mechanically fell into step behind Iydris. His eyes were hollow and his movements incredibly stiff, making him look just like a stringed marionette.
The honor guards behaved similarly. Like soulless dolls, they silently marched behind Iydris, striding directly toward their unknown fate.
Amidst the torrential downpour, their silhouettes appeared exceptionally solitary and insane. They looked like a flock of ghosts forsaken by destiny, stubbornly pursuing a completely doomed "revenge."
"Dantioch!"
Left completely without command, the surviving Iron Warriors fell into absolute chaos. Meanwhile, Iydris fearlessly led his honor guards in a suicidal charge straight toward the heart of the Sons of Dorn.
Kill him!
As long as I kill him, I can prove that I am the greatest Iron Warrior of them all.
Bang!
One by one, the honor guards fell, their massive frames crashing heavily to the ground and splashing up thick globs of mud.
Even amidst their desperate charge, the strategist's head was cleanly blown apart by a perfectly placed bolter round. Blood and brain matter sprayed out, staining the surrounding rain puddles a deep crimson.
Bang!
Another explosive round slammed directly into Iydris's torso. His armor registered a heavy, muffled clang as blood instantly began seeping out from the freshly formed cracks.
However, what leaked out was not crimson blood, but a viscous, black motor oil that reeked of pungent, metallic fumes.
Pitter-patter...
The torrential storm continued pouring from the skies. Sheets of water cascaded through the breaches in the fortress like wild waterfalls, pooling into hundreds of tiny rivers across the broken ground.
Iydris stood proudly in the downpour. His gaze pierced through the heavy veil of rain, locking onto that blurry, distant silhouette.
With just a single glance, he had acquired his target.
"I see you! I found you!"
Iydris growled low, his voice incredibly hoarse against the backdrop of the thundering rain. He lengthened his stride, weathering the blistering storm of bolter fire and sprinting forward like a rabid beast.
It was as if even the Primarch had been moved by his immense sheer determination. The lethal hail of iron seemed to deliberately avoid his armor, tracing completely harmless paths around his body, as if carving open a direct road to victory just for him.
"Dantioch! Dantioch!"
His voice echoed furiously through the rain, saturated with bottomless rage and homicidal intent.
Suddenly, a towering Space Marine stepped directly into his line of sight. A massive, crimson power fist radiated fierce flames in the torrential rain, looking exceptionally glaring.
He had been in the midst of assaulting a rapid-strike vanguard squad, physically blocking the path between Iydris and Dantioch.
"Die!"
Driven utterly mad with wrath, his eyes glowing a hellish red, Iydris swung his power hammer and smashed it down violently toward the Space Marine. His movements were as blindingly fast as lightning, the heavy weapon carving through the air with a piercing, high-pitched screech.
Whoosh—
The power hammer descended!
Clang!
The sheer kinetic force of the impact blasted massive clouds of dust through the rain, sending dark mud splattering violently in every direction.
As a Warsmith, the Chaos blessings Iydris had acquired were unparalleled, elevating his physical strength far beyond the limits of ten millennia ago when his limbs had still been whole. Combined with his meticulously forged power hammer, his battlefield penetration was virtually unrivaled.
An ordinary Astartes facing him would simply be crushed into paste on the spot!
However, the plunging steel was rapidly decelerating.
Slower and slower, until it ground to a complete halt.
The crimson power fist had caught the devastating hammer blow squarely. The defender had merely been shoved backwards a few meters, gouging two deep trenches into the muddy earth.
Feeling the immense pressure transmitting through his arm, First Captain of the Crimson Fists, Pedro Cantor, finally realized exactly what he had just done.
A cold sweat instantly broke out across his skin. Even as he cursed himself internally for his lack of vigilance and loss of battlefield reverence, he couldn't help but marvel at the astonishing defensive capabilities of his Blazing Fist.
'Truly worthy of being a sacred relic bestowed by Lord Rameses.'
Even as the thought crossed his mind, a cold, sharp glint flashed through his eyes. He immediately leaned in close, lunging toward the enemy who had attempted the sudden ambush, yet was now standing completely paralyzed for some inexplicable reason.
The crimson fist remained clamped firmly around the enemy's weapon like an iron vise. Pedro's left arm shot out like an eagle's talon, locking flawlessly onto the exposed joint of the traitor's right pauldron.
The servo-motors of his armor whined as they spun up to maximum capacity, releasing a deep, resonant hum. Relying on his extraordinary height and leverage, he hoisted the enemy straight off the ground, lifting him as effortlessly as helpless prey.
Capitalizing on the instant the enemy lost his balance, Pedro lunged forward into a heavy stance and drove his right fist outward like a thunderous cannonball.
The power fist erupted with crushing, devastating force. The Chaos-blessed armor shattered like wet paper under the heavy strike. Shrapnel, gears, and mutated flesh sprayed wildly into the air, while the sharp, metallic stench of motor oil mingled thickly with the coppery tang of blood.
A swift and decisive finish!
Pedro's gaze was as sharp as a blade. Seeing Iydris's massive frame blown backward through the air, he released his left grip—which was throbbing painfully from the sheer kinetic blowback—and sprinted forward like a loosed arrow.
One more punch!
Boom!!!
This strike connected squarely against Iydris's chest. The heavy, booming impact echoed powerfully across the battlefield, accompanied by massive geysers of displaced dirt. Iydris's figure simply vanished into the distance with a loud whistle, leaving only a massive, jagged trench plowed through the mud as if a colossal beast had dragged its claws across the earth.
"Impossible... How is this possible?"
His body twisted and visibly deformed, Iydris staggered unsteadily back to his feet, sheer disbelief plastered across his face.
His armor was in tatters. Pitch-black blood oozed thickly from his fractured plating, dripping down to stain the very ground that the torrential storm had only just washed clean.
Yet before he could even process this brutal reality, the crimson-fisted giant was already looming over him like the Reaper himself.
Unstoppable. Completely insurmountable!
Iydris's pupils shrank to pinpricks, his body seizing violently for a fraction of a second. Then, a look of profound daze washed over his features, as if he had just awakened from a terrifying nightmare.
'How could it be like this? How can...'
But his final thought was cut short. The crimson fist swung once more, carrying with it the undeniable scent of total annihilation.
And this time—
It was aimed directly at his head!
Smash!
His skull shattered like a dropped melon. Blood and grey matter exploded outward, painting Pedro's gauntlet and tabard crimson.
"?"
Drenched in a fresh coat of viscous black motor oil, Pedro looked down, staring at his crimson fist in mild bewilderment.
The scarlet flames dancing across the knuckles burned incessantly, and the intricate engravings etched into the gauntlet began to visibly shift. They grew sharper and significantly more rigid, actively acknowledging the glorious fruits of this brutal triumph.
Behind him, the company standard fluttered powerfully without the slightest trace of wind. Flames licked aggressively at its borders, steadily consuming the fabric of the grand banner.
Under the envious gazes of the other Sons of Dorn, both the heraldry and the structural framework of the banner shifted into a brand new aesthetic. Fresh battle honors were seared directly into the standard, forever cementing the most critical victory of this engagement.
"Lord."
Pedro turned to face Dantioch as the latter approached, the lingering confusion in his eyes still yet to fade.
He had never imagined a victory like this practically falling straight out of the sky and into his lap.
"Proceed with the final sweep of the upper fortress levels."
Pausing only briefly to examine the jagged breach leading down into the lower stronghold, Dantioch offered his junior a warm, encouraging smile.
"And then, enjoy your well-earned victory!"
—
The torrential rain continued to pour, while thick columns of pitch-black smoke billowed furiously into the air, obscuring half the stormy sky.
The imposing figures of the Dark Angels flickered faintly through the heavy downpour. They moved like silent reapers, absolutely cold and completely merciless.
Arthur retracted his gaze and turned toward the extraction point.
"Let us go."
There was no need for them to stick around for the cleanup.
The Dark Angels fell closely into step behind him, rapidly vanishing into the thick veil of smoke completely blanketing the battlefield.
Deep within the fortress lay a battlefield completely stripped bare. The only thing left behind was a thick, suffocating aura of murder that lingered long after the slaughter had ended.
—
"..."
Far away in the deepest recesses of the Warp, the Primarch seated within the Iron Blood snapped his eyes open.
Those eyes were entirely devoid of any discernible emotion.
As the demonic furnace completely shattered in his grasp, molten metal seeped smoothly through his fingers. It dripped heavily to the floor, hissing sharply as it burned into the deck.
"Heh heh heh..."
A thoroughly relieved smile slowly bloomed across Perturabo's face.
Trash!