"My lord lost?!"
Facing the Savior's eager gaze, the Iron Warriors commanders fell into silence.
They were all stunned.
The Iron Warriors had opposed this kind of wager before, mainly out of honor. They did not want their gene-father treated like a tradable commodity.
And they did not believe their gene-father could lose a gamble that, by the numbers, was practically a guaranteed win.
But as the conditions shifted again and again, they ultimately lost the wager.
Worse still, under their gene-father's orders, the Iron Warriors had sworn on their lives and honor.
If the wager was lost, they would swear fealty to the Savior.
"What do we do now?!"
The Iron Warriors looked at one another, then turned their eyes toward Perturabo, the Lord of Iron, hoping for guidance.
If their gene-father gave the order to reject this gamble, they were willing to endure the backlash of a Chaos pact, break the oath, and launch an attack.
The curse of a Chaos pact was certainly fearsome, but if they were given time, their Librarians would find a way to lift it.
Yet the Lord of Iron had sunk into profound defeat, barely reacting at all.
"Lost…
I actually lost this wager. Lost a wager that should have been a near-certainty…"
Perturabo stared at the wreckage of dark war-machines across the mechanised battlefield and muttered to himself.
Those Shinichi automated war-machines clearing the field, lit by the flames, cast golden reflections through their frames and skeletal plating.
Within the Savior's armed order of battle, they were effectively the Custodes of the machine-domain. Every unit was overwhelmingly powerful.
Dark war-machines simply could not resist them.
"It can't be. The win rate was 99.99%. How could it collapse into a loss in an instant?"
Perturabo fixated on the auxiliary analysis display, on the glaring, unmistakable 0% victory rate, unable to believe it.
When he first arrived on the balcony, the probability had rocketed to 99.99%. That number was intoxicating, the kind of data that screamed inevitability.
But the moment the Savior's so-called Shinichi automata appeared, the odds hit zero within milliseconds.
Their advance was a landslide. It hit the mind like a hammer.
From certain victory to certain defeat. The shift lasted no longer than a blink.
The Lord of Iron's emotions whiplashed like a runaway engine, then plunged straight into an endless abyss.
"I lost to the Savior in machinery and in art.
What failure. What humiliation. I've become a pitiful joke…"
Bitterness rose in Perturabo's chest.
That had been the one advantage he took the most pride in, and he had lost it to a man with only a middling education, a so-called vulgar nouveau riche in the eyes of others.
The Lord of Iron could not accept it.
For any Primarch, it would have been a crushing blow.
"Yes, Brother Perturabo. I won this round by sheer luck. Perhaps fate favored me."
Eden worked hard to control his expression, arranging his features into something regretful, so the joy in his chest would not provoke the twisted man before him.
This was a total victory. An entire Space Marine Legion.
Of course, the stakes he had put up were not small.
As his flagship, the Dreamweaver not only carried Dark Age of Technology marvels, it held vast quantities of cutting-edge systems as well, including Primarch gene-clones, his own clones, and more besides.
In a wager of this scale, whoever lost would go numb.
Still, Perturabo was taking it badly enough that he was voicing his thoughts aloud.
In a situation like this, Eden needed to keep it steady. No pushing. No gloating.
If he did not intend to tear everything down into a life-and-death vendetta, then once he had won, he should not run his mouth. That was how you triggered a duel to the death.
Better to quietly take the spoils and get rich in silence.
"Lord of Iron, you are a commander who honors his word and keeps faith. That is worthy of respect.
Since you say nothing, I will take it that you will uphold your promise. From this moment on, the Iron Warriors Legion belongs to me."
Eden's voice was so faint it would have been inaudible if one were not listening for it.
But supported by psychic force, those words carried clearly to the Iron Warriors commanders.
Perturabo heard the Savior's statement. He wanted to speak, but did not know what to say.
Was he supposed to break the oath in front of everyone, shamefully tearing up the contract?
The Lord of Iron hesitated, falling once more into bitter entanglement.
Eden did not care. After speaking, he gave a slight bow, then strode toward the area where the Iron Warriors commanders stood.
He had to seize the moment while Perturabo was still twisting himself into knots, and secure the Iron Warriors Legion.
If Perturabo recovered, or changed his mind, it would be far harder.
Perturabo and the Iron Warriors were living beings, not programs. A Chaos pact alone would not "solve" them.
If they began to resist in earnest, Eden would have nothing to show for it.
"My warriors, come with me."
Eden stopped before the Iron Warriors commanders, lowered his head slightly, and looked down at them.
He spoke in the tone of an adoptive father, gentle and even. "Your gene-father has agreed. We have many matters to discuss."
The Savior did not issue a harsh order. He did not loom over them with arrogance.
Instead, he showed them respect.
As if he had always been their father.
For the Iron Warriors, it was a strange sensation.
The Lord of Iron had always addressed them with cold indifference.
Orders. Directives. The chill command of a machine.
Not the communication of a gene-father with his sons.
But the Savior was different.
The Iron Warriors exchanged glances, at a loss.
"No matter what, the pact and promise between Brother Perturabo and I has taken effect. That is a fact that cannot be resisted and cannot be altered."
Eden stared at the Chaos-tainted warriors before him, wearing an expression of iron disappointment.
"Where is the loyalty and honor of the Iron Warriors? You are the finest of warriors. Do not disappoint me, and do not disappoint the Lord of Iron.
I believe among you there are those who truly possess loyalty and honor, and that not all of you are deceivers."
He went straight into a psychological squeeze, pressing the Iron Warriors hard.
First, he invoked obedience to authority, framing the pact as jointly established by their gene-father and himself, something they could not defy.
Then he ignited their sense of duty and guilt, implying that loyalty and honor were their very nature, and that refusing the pact would betray that nature.
Finally, he labeled and split them, lacing the air with insult: anyone who refused was a shameless deceiver.
Someone to be isolated.
Once a few followed, others would follow as well, simply to avoid the brand of dishonor.
"This is the Iron Warriors' final chance to display loyalty and honor. I will not wait long…"
After speaking, Eden let out a deep sigh and walked alone toward the hall.
His back looked lonely, as if failing to follow would itself be a shame and a loss.
With nothing but language, the Savior defused the shame the Iron Warriors had been hiding in their hearts.
As though serving another Primarch, another Emperor, was not disgraceful at all.
As though it was proof of loyalty and honor.
The Iron Warriors watched Eden's retreating figure, and something shifted in their expressions. The balance within them began to tilt.
Then they looked to the Lord of Iron.
Their gene-father still stood wrapped in his tangled emotions, turned away, silent.
He did not even seem to notice the conversation, as if his sons were expendable.
"I will not become a deceiver. That would be a shame I carry forever."
A company captain suddenly spoke, then broke into a stride after the Savior.
The Iron Warriors had never bowed to any Chaos God. In their hearts, they still had pride and honor.
That was the bedrock of all Space Marines, especially when they had not been truly polluted by a god's corruption.
Otherwise they would not have loathed mutation so deeply, preferring mechanical augmetics over warped flesh.
And under Perturabo's long, brutal rule and cold detachment, they had long since lost faith in their gene-father's leadership, resentment growing like rust under plating.
It had merely been forced down until now. Today, that discontent finally detonated.
Gradually, more high-ranking Iron Warriors turned and marched toward the hall.
Decisive. Unhesitating.
"Father…"
Aharin turned toward his gene-father and called softly.
Some part of him still hoped.
But the gene-father's body trembled, and he did not turn around. He issued no order at all.
"He never cared about us."
Aharin's heart sank into complete disappointment, his eyes wet.
It hurt. Even the Chaos Gods would cherish their favored and grant them gifts.
Aharin, that pale scion, recalled the moment his gene-father's hand closed around his throat.
He truly believed he was about to be killed.
So ruthless.
And willing to trade them like goods.
Aharin shook his head and followed the others. He was the last to leave.
Perhaps that would be the last time he ever called the Lord of Iron "Father."
Before long, only Perturabo remained on the balcony, standing there in a daze.
Under the impact of failure and humiliation, the twisted man fell into a hallucination.
…
In the vision, Perturabo returned to Olympia, the feudal world of city-states where he had grown, the place that had once held his dream of an ideal homeland.
Back then, he had dreamed of building a civilized world, of using art and technology to create something perfect.
Yet he was not understood. His adoptive father wanted only more weapons, more engines of war, more destruction of the natural world.
The hallucination switched.
Then the Emperor came, still using him as a tool, still placing limits upon his gifts.
During the Great Crusade…
He obeyed his true father's orders. He shattered fortress after fortress, conquered and destroyed world after world that refused compliance.
But Perturabo knew that was never what he wanted.
Not only did his father fail to understand him, even his brothers did not.
He still remembered improving the Imperium's lighting systems amid war, reducing energy consumption to the absolute minimum, creating light at a trivial cost.
It would have brought illumination to the Imperium's countless impoverished regions.
When he eagerly offered it to his father as a gift, what he received was a merciless rebuke.
"Perturabo, you disappoint me. As a Legion's commander, you should not waste time on such trifles.
You must understand: our time is running out. Humanity will face a terrible catastrophe."
Seated upon the Throne, the Emperor's voice was cold as voidstone.
"We must complete the Great Crusade's objectives with the utmost speed.
We must gather humanity's strength and build a mighty Imperium, to open more routes, to raise more bastion lines.
No matter the cost. No matter how many lives are sacrificed, it must be done, even if the price is my own life.
Do you understand?!"
Perturabo fell silent, then asked the question he had buried for so long, the truth the Primarchs all wanted to know.
"Father… who is our enemy, and where are they?"
In the Primarchs' eyes, the Imperium's Legions already bestrode the galaxy. Everywhere they went, all bowed. Nothing could stop them.
They could not imagine what kind of foe could destroy the Imperium.
Yet the Emperor refused to answer.
"You cannot know that yet. Knowing would only hasten the enemy's arrival.
Execute my command. You will immediately lead the Fourth Legion to support Horus in retaking the Akum Sector.
He has just been raised to Warmaster. He needs a grand victory.
As for your little invention, at a suitable time I will see it adopted across the Imperium's domain."
Perturabo could not understand why his father concealed the enemy's identity.
But with a promise given, he still obeyed and went to aid Horus.
He still carried a hope: that one day his father would spread his creation through the Imperium.
Yet even when the Great Crusade ended and the Imperium entered an era of growth, Perturabo never saw his lamp appear.
The Emperor seemed to have forgotten it, as he forgot all other insignificant things.
Not worth mentioning.
The Primarchs were tools.
Perturabo's disappointment accumulated like that, grain by grain, until it became the clash with Dorn, the great rebellion.
And he fell. All the way to the era after the Great Rift, to the present.
Now Perturabo wanted only revenge. More war-machines. More engines of ruin. Marching on Holy Terra to face the Emperor, that father.
To prove him wrong.
"But now, I have lost the Iron Warriors Legion.
I have lost the instrument of my revenge!"
Time passed. How long, he did not know.
Perturabo tore himself free of the hallucination and woke to the reality of his situation.
His authority had collapsed under defeat. Many arrogant, defiant Iron Warriors would surely choose to follow the Savior.
In truth, a large portion of the Iron Warriors Legion used Dorn's gene-seed.
Perturabo had never held complete control over those warriors, especially not through blood.
"No. I must stop the Savior. I must take back part of the Iron Warriors and preserve the Legion's strength!"
Perturabo drew a deep breath, forced down the memories and the humanity the hallucination had stirred, and returned to a beast's snarl.
The Iron Warriors were among his most important tools of vengeance. Much of his forging and construction required them.
They could not be lost.
He tightened his grip around the Forgebreaker thunder hammer and turned, striding hard toward the hall.
He had to act quickly and issue orders, clawing back at least some of his sons.
Even with a Chaos pact in place, the dread authority he had accumulated over ages could still exert force.
The Lord of Iron believed most of the loyal would follow him away.
They might even attack the Savior and the "traitors."
"What's wrong with the vox-net? When did this happen?"
But as Perturabo began checking each channel, the situation proved worse than he feared.
Many links were simply dead, severed without explanation.
A heavier dread settled in his gut.
It meant vast numbers of Iron Warriors had gone dark, abandoning their gene-father and swearing themselves to the Savior, the Emperor of the Imperium.
"What insolence!"
Fury flared in Perturabo, and yet he felt strangely powerless.
He had been the one to order them to swear the oath.
The Savior had likely already taken them away.
He had lost those sons forever.
Perhaps he could drive the fortress onward, launch another assault, and reclaim more of them by force.
"What… exactly happened here?!"
When Perturabo entered the hall, his whole mind went numb. He stopped dead, staring.
The throne hall of the living Chaos fortress was unrecognizable.
The Lord of Iron's banners of honor were gone. Even the interior had been remodeled.
Sun motifs and the Savior's iconography were everywhere, along with his standards of honor.
There were even slogans hung up as celebratory banners, bright red and almost festive.
A servant pushed a dining cart past, apparently delivering a meal to someone within.
But the food on that cart was unmistakably from Perturabo's own stores, his own stock of delicacies.
When the servant saw the Lord of Iron, they smiled and bowed, as if welcoming an honored guest.
…?
"I'm the guest now?"
Perturabo was lost, mind blazing red-hot and empty all at once.
A single, vital question pounded through his skull.
"Who am I? Where am I? Is this still my turf?!"
If this was not a hallucination, then the only explanation was that the Savior had redecorated the entire hall in an absurdly short time.
And polished it.
"How dare he. This is my throne hall!"
Perturabo's rage spiked higher as he strode toward the hall's core, murder in his posture.
Then he saw them again: Iron Warriors, his former gene-sons.
High-ranking Iron Warriors stood in neat ranks, as if undergoing inspection, their appearance utterly changed.
They bore new insignia. Flames burned across their armor. Every piece of wargear was drenched in spectacle, effects turned to the maximum.
Master-crafted quality at minimum.
Around them stood even more veterans in Aquilon Pattern Terminator Armour of the Adeptus Custodes.
Hundreds of them, arranged as if guarding the presence at the center.
"Traitors! You've gone too far!"
Perturabo could not stop himself. The curse spat from his mouth, and it looked as if he would swing Forgebreaker and crush these altered sons on the spot.
Serving the Savior was one thing. Flaunting themselves here, in his throne hall, was another.
But in the next instant, he saw the Savior, the Emperor of the Imperium.
That being sat, quite casually, upon Perturabo's own throne, as if it had always been his place.
"Brother Perturabo, why are you here?"
Eden took a pleased sip of a Chaos-vaulted red wine, two thousand years aged, utterly at ease.
He sounded like he was greeting a guest who had traveled far.
Then his tone shifted. "We have no traitors here. Brother… don't say such things."
In that moment, the Custodian Wardens and the high-ranking Iron Warriors in the hall all turned their eyes to the Lord of Iron.
Over a thousand elite warriors stared at him, unblinking, with the cold weight of scrutiny.
Perturabo stood alone. His scalp prickled.
And only one thought remained in his mind.
"This is bad.
I'm the traitor now?!"
(End of Chapter)
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