Perturabo stared at the towering, one-handed figure, his eyes turning red.
Even though the silhouette was wrapped in an ash-grey robe, blurred to the point of being nearly indistinguishable, he recognized it at a glance—
The Primarch of the VII Legion, the Vigilant: Rogal Dorn!
"Arrogant, self-righteous, a worthless wreck who loves hiding in fortresses. I knew you weren't dead.
You deceived everyone and hoarded all the glory for yourself.
Now, at last, I have the chance to end all of this…"
That virtual projection was so repulsive that, with only a single look, the hatred buried in Perturabo's heart erupted completely.
And along with it came a thick surge of exhilaration.
That bastard wasn't dead!
He had never believed Dorn would die so easily. He had been searching all this time.
That scum was praised as the galaxy's greatest engineer, the supreme builder of fortresses.
But in truth, it was all empty reputation.
His construction skill was nowhere near that of the Lord of Iron, and he'd used underhanded means to steal all the honors.
Back during the Siege of Terra, Perturabo had personally dismantled Dorn's fortifications and broken into the defenses of the Imperial Palace—those lines that were proclaimed unbreakable.
For the first time, he had defeated that fame-hungry fraud.
After beating Dorn, Perturabo had been satisfied, and no longer wished to involve himself in the rebellion.
He realized Horus and those lunatics never truly appreciated his genius. They only wanted to use him as a sledgehammer, to smash Rogal Dorn—the Vigilant, a pillar of the Imperium.
But he'd already achieved his goal. He'd shattered the fortress Dorn took such pride in.
And then Horus had the audacity to issue another order, demanding the IV Legion "see the bigger picture," scatter across other fronts, and assist the other Legions in cracking hard targets.
The IV Legion's position on Terra would be replaced by Mortarion and his Legion.
How was that any different from the Emperor's treatment of him?!
So Perturabo flew into a rage. He denounced Horus as a monster no better than the Emperor, and refused to become anyone's tool ever again.
He ordered the IV Legion to take everything they could carry, and withdraw from Terra entirely—leaving that farce of a rebellion behind.
Perturabo no longer cared about Terra's chaos, grudges, and entanglements.
He knew that without him, Horus' pack of rabid fools would inevitably fail.
"Mad dogs without a guiding mind can't possibly win. They'll only bite wildly until they're beaten to death with clubs."
That was what Perturabo believed then. War depended on intellect, not brute force and madness.
He predicted the Warmaster's rebellion would fail, using precise data.
And reality proved him right.
Horus grievously wounded the Emperor, but the rebellion failed and he died. Dorn held Terra.
In Perturabo's eyes, whoever won or lost that war had nothing to do with him anymore.
No matter how many merits Dorn accumulated afterward, he was still a defeated opponent—everyone had seen it.
Yet Perturabo had never expected this: Dorn was such a sore loser that he publicly declared he would shove the Lord of Iron into a cage like a dog and drag him back to Terra for public display.
"How arrogant.
Dorn and his sons will learn that their hope and pride will be reduced to nothing!"
That news enraged Perturabo. He planned a war—one meant to crush that fool completely.
He dragged the Iron Warriors into an all-night construction frenzy, pouring ferrocrete and raising a massive fortress citadel, its heavy armor thick enough to withstand any assault.
Around it, he laid out a kill-zone tens of kilometers wide, packed with every imaginable minefield, trap, and defensive work.
Then Perturabo positioned himself at the center of the fortress citadel and taunted Dorn.
"The Lord of Iron is here. If the VII Legion's trash have the courage, come and take me!"
Before long, Dorn arrived at the head of a vast Imperial Fists host, and launched a frenzied assault on the fortress.
But the citadel was impossibly solid. The outer kill-zone alone inflicted massive casualties on the Imperial Fists, and the inner fortress was a labyrinth of iron walls, broken into compartments, saturated with heavy firepower.
It dealt Dorn and the Imperial Fists a crippling blow. One warrior after another was blasted apart by terrifying firepower, trampled into ruin.
They were forced to use the corpses of their battle-brothers as shields just to advance.
"That was Dorn and the VII Legion's most catastrophic defeat. They were nearly annihilated, and even Dorn himself was on the verge of death."
That was how Perturabo saw it.
His plan had been perfect. He'd hammered Dorn until he couldn't lift his head.
To the point that Dorn threw everything away and tried to trade lives with him.
In Perturabo's calculations, Dorn had to die inside that fortress. There was no possibility of reversal.
The outcome had been derived from multi-factor computation, with a projected accuracy above ninety percent.
Yet what caught him off guard was that Guilliman's reinforcements arrived out of nowhere—numerous, overwhelming.
They pulled Dorn out of the fortress.
If the relief force had been even a moment later, Dorn would have had no chance to turn the table.
"What a shame. Guilliman—the dull-witted brute who never reads the situation—chose the one time to arrive on time…"
Even now, remembering it left Perturabo simmering.
That man's reinforcements were never punctual, and yet that one time, they came absurdly fast.
Perhaps it was fate itself taking aim at him.
But at the time, Perturabo didn't feel much frustration. By any rational measure, he had won—he had beaten Dorn twice in succession.
He had broken Dorn's Terra fortifications, painstakingly raised to protect the Throneworld.
And he had used the Eternal Fortress to cripple Dorn and the VII Legion.
It proved the Lord of Iron's ability to all, leaving the Emperor—their "father"—with nothing to say.
Perturabo had been satisfied, and had no intention of clinging to the matter further.
But soon after, rumors began to spread.
They claimed the Lord of Iron was inferior to Dorn, that he'd only destroyed Terra's defenses thanks to traitors within, and by relying on daemonic power.
That he was nothing but a shameless opportunist, worthless without others doing the work.
Worse still, the rumors said Dorn's defeat at the Eternal Fortress was mainly because, after the Emperor fell, Dorn was drowning in guilt and seeking death—rather than being truly outplayed.
In short, they painted the Lord of Iron as a parasite who "won by lying down," propped up by Chaos daemons and other traitor Legions, with little real ability of his own.
Back then, many across the Imperium and the galaxy believed it.
They thought: Dorn held Terra itself. How could he lose to the Lord of Iron, that traitor?
It had to be a Chaos lie!
It sickened Perturabo. He came out again, determined to settle the score.
He had to beat Dorn to his knees, then, before all eyes, throw him into Terra in the most humiliating way possible.
He would make the victory indisputable.
Yet before Perturabo could act, another piece of news arrived—
Rogal Dorn, the Imperium's last pillar, had died.
The Primarch had been swarmed and beaten to death by World Eaters in a void boarding action. His corpse was torn apart, piece by piece.
Only one severed hand remained.
When Perturabo heard it, he froze.
He was furious beyond measure. How could Dorn die like that—without falling to a Primarch, without falling to a Chaos God?
To be killed by a mob of fallen World Eaters?
It was like a lion being gnawed to death by insects—an insult so grotesque it became absurd.
Impossible.
And yet every fact and scrap of evidence pointed to that conclusion. The Primarch's presence had truly vanished.
All that remained was the broken, severed hand.
Dorn's reported death left Perturabo at a loss.
In the entire galaxy, he might have been the one who least wanted Dorn to die.
The rumors hadn't been cleared. He hadn't finished crushing that bastard.
How dare Dorn die like this?!
You can't defeat a dead man.
And you can't wash away humiliation and slander with a corpse you cannot reach.
In a certain sense, Perturabo had lost forever.
He wanted to desecrate Dorn's body—yet there was no body to desecrate.
After that, Perturabo found those World Eaters and wiped them out to the last with the most brutal bombardment he could devise.
But then more rumors spread.
Some said the Lord of Iron was avenging Dorn.
Others said the Lord of Iron had conspired with the World Eaters to assassinate Dorn.
Cunning, venomous figures whispered everywhere, twisting the knife and humiliating him further.
Dorn's death hollowed Perturabo out. He sank into a long depression, remaining on the daemon fortress world of Medrengard—
Barely ever emerging.
He always felt Dorn had not truly died. He never stopped searching, and secretly hoped Dorn might be alive after all.
"Rogal Dorn!"
Perturabo glared at the towering virtual projection. Warp-taint surged within him, saturated with hatred.
That contest—never fully settled—could finally continue.
He wanted to lunge forward and tear the image apart.
"Hey, hey, hey—don't do this, brother. That's only a virtual projection!"
Seeing Perturabo about to explode, Eden hurriedly grabbed him, fearing this brother might tumble into deeper corruption under the weight of hatred.
He felt a headache coming on.
And he understood even more clearly the Emperor's predicament back then.
Twenty Primarchs, none getting along, many harboring grudges—so much so that they also resented their father.
It was chaos, a pot boiling over. How do you govern that?
Even breaking up a fight was hard. Step in and you're accused of favoritism, which only deepens bitterness and hatred.
Perturabo and Dorn were the classic example.
The Emperor gave Dorn a slightly more important assignment, and Perturabo's discontent flared.
In the end, the two Primarch sons hated each other so fiercely they spilled blood and brain matter, neither yielding to the other.
And they even turned their blades toward their father.
From Eden's perspective, Perturabo and Dorn were simply destroying each other.
There was no true winner or loser.
More troublesome still: Perturabo's hatred ran deep, while Dorn was stubborn as a nail. If Dorn returned, it would be a nightmare.
If they came to blows, Eden wasn't even sure how he could stop it. Both were critical to the Imperium.
He couldn't just eliminate one of them!
Dorn was loyal and had rendered immense service to the Imperium. If he returned, Eden would have to place him properly.
And Perturabo was a vital research mind. Eden still needed him to revive stalled projects. He would have to soothe him as well.
"This is a mess…"
Eden sighed inwardly. "Dorn isn't even back yet and it's already like this. If he were actually here, wouldn't they draw blades on the spot?!"
He found himself worrying whether, if he cultivated more Primarchs of his own, he might one day end up like the Emperor.
Education had to start young, or one day some unfilial son would stab him in the back and proclaim he should command all the armies of the Imperium.
Hum.
Warp-energy churned.
The warp-taint and hatred spilling from Perturabo put Lion and Khan on guard.
They looked at him, and something in their gaze subtly changed.
Dorn—the stubborn chatterbox who loved filing little reports—could be irritating, but he was among the brothers most loyal to the Imperium.
Perturabo, on the other hand, had once been a traitor, and had not truly regained their trust.
If conflict erupted, they would stand on Dorn's side.
The formerly harmonious atmosphere tightened, turning tense—just as it had ten thousand years ago, when any gathering could ignite contradictions and conflict.
At that moment, the Emperor's gaze also projected over, watching with concern.
The Primarchs were so proud and unruly that sometimes they refused to recognize even their father. Even the Emperor had found them troublesome, and had been forced to suppress them with severity.
And Perturabo was a fallen Primarch.
For the Savior—the Emperor of the Imperium—that was a serious problem.
"This is not good. I have to solve this."
Eden recognized how thorny it was. A ruler trying to maintain relationships with brothers and battle-hardened warlords was never easy.
Fortunately, he was not the Emperor, and his persona held firm.
He fully activated his new authority, dissolving negative emotions as much as possible, while pressing Perturabo down and barking a command.
"Stop!"
When the Primarchs saw the Savior's anger, the room went quiet at once, even Perturabo.
This was the benefit of a carefully built image and prestige.
The Savior's established persona—generous, friendly, and invincible in war—had earned the Primarchs' recognition and support.
They believed the Savior would not mistreat any brother.
So when he spoke, people listened. At the very least, they would not reject him out of hand.
Perturabo sensed the issue and forced down his rage.
Normally, he would not tolerate anyone barking orders at him, not even the Emperor.
But the Savior-brother was different.
He was the only being in the galaxy who truly appreciated Perturabo's talents and ideals.
A kindred spirit.
Perturabo looked at the Savior, waiting for his explanation.
He had never been this patient.
Was the Savior going to stop him from taking revenge? That was impossible, even if he had returned to the Imperium!
"I understand how you feel, and I won't stop you from dueling Dorn."
Eden said it plainly.
He knew he could not erase the hatred between Perturabo and Dorn. Forcing restraint would only create more conflict.
But he could control the scale and intensity.
He fixed Perturabo with a hard stare and continued.
"There is one rule you must obey. No crossing the line.
No large-scale war. Under any circumstances.
You will resolve it yourselves.
Or, when the time comes, I will arrange a duel for you—so the entire galaxy, and the Warp itself, can witness you settle the matter fairly, with a clear victor."
If those two wanted to fight, then let them fight to their hearts' content.
That was the best solution Eden could see. Perturabo—twisted inward, self-isolating—only wanted to win cleanly once.
Of course, Dorn was stubborn to the core. Seeing Perturabo might drive him into a frenzy too, and Eden would have to communicate with him separately.
Still, the Emperor was present. It wouldn't spiral into absolute annihilation.
One step at a time.
"Fine. I accept."
After hearing it, Perturabo drew a deep breath. Much of the fury in his heart faded.
He agreed to the Savior's terms.
"During this time, focus on your research. When my people find Dorn, I'll arrange the grandest dueling ground imaginable for you."
Seeing Perturabo calm down, Eden began to dangle incentives.
"The resources you need are already being shipped to the Charadon region. As for an Aeldari craftworld, I'm working on that too."
If nothing unexpected happened, he would soon have to go and make trouble for the xenos properly.
The Vigilus front would also have to be activated.
Perturabo, and all the research institutes, needed vast quantities of blackstone—especially for new technologies like Warp-lockdown devices and broadcast projectors.
Eden hoped everything would go smoothly.
He patted Perturabo on the shoulder.
"Brothers, we're about to see the little one. Don't keep those stone faces on.
Don't scare him."
Perturabo, Lion, and the others relaxed a little.
They truly were looking forward to meeting that new life.
With that, they ended the unpleasant topic and headed for the biological cloning laboratory.
…
Inside the laboratory.
Dozens—over a hundred—auric-glass incubation jars stood in rows, each holding the floating body of a Primarch.
All the bodies were cultivated through cloning: Mortarion, Magnus, Fulgrim, and others.
They were still in the process of being perfected.
It was Lion and Khan's first time inside. They were curious—especially when they saw the Savior's own clone-body.
"Brother, are you also a clone right now?"
Khan asked. With the authority veiling him, Khan could not distinguish whether the Savior before him was the original.
"In principle, you could call it the original."
Eden answered ambiguously, unwilling to explain further.
Seeing that, no one pressed him.
Then they saw something even more shocking—so much so that hatred rose unbidden.
"Horus?!"
Lion stared at the familiar yet revolting figure and drew in a long breath.
"You're not planning to revive the traitor who dragged the Imperium into ruin, are you?"
"I'm still considering it."
Eden did not deny it.
"But there's no question it can be used as a weapon.
If the Chaos Gods revive Horus, we can use this clone-body to contest his unique essence—and seize victory."
It was preparation for the inevitable Primarch revival matches.
Only Primarchs could deal with Primarchs.
No one knew how many fallen Primarch souls the Chaos Gods possessed, or how many they could resurrect.
It was better to prepare in advance.
Eden had to hold a numerical advantage.
If they could gang up, that was best.
After hearing the Savior's reasoning, Lion and the others did not question it further. If that brother chose this path, he had his reasons.
Not long after, Eden led the Primarchs into a pure-white nursery.
Above a circular, soft crib in the center, a tiny figure floated.
The new-type crib had an anti-grav device that could gently support the life within.
"My…"
Lion and the others saw the baby and their eyes lit up at once, their expressions softening.
Primarchs grew quickly.
The little one had only just been born, and was already crawling clumsily in midair. His big eyes sparkled—so adorable.
They could also sense the child's purity and kindness, as if simply looking at him made their hearts lighter.
Because the child was made using a shard of Angron's soul, he had also inherited an authority capable of soothing emotions.
In the future, he would surely become an upright Primarch knight of the Imperium.
Seeing him felt like seeing the selves they once were.
They couldn't help but love him.
"Little one, your godfather and your uncles came to see you."
Eden gently lifted the soft baby and lightly tickled his belly, making him giggle.
Babies really were easier to like.
"Papa…"
The little one giggled and reached for Eden's hair, clearly already possessing basic recognition.
Lion and the others crowded in, smiling broadly, nearly squeezing the Savior out of the circle.
"So these monsters really want to be dads. Even Perturabo, that twisted, shut-in type."
Eden looked at Lion and the others, feeling oddly speechless.
These decisive, murderous warlords were squatting around, teasing a baby with boundless enthusiasm, having the time of their lives.
At the same time, a gaze from the Warp gathered in the room.
It was the Emperor.
The Emperor's mood was complicated. He had not expected the Savior to defuse conflict so quickly.
The Primarch sons were practically obedient to the Savior, trusting him even more than they trusted their father.
If the Savior had existed ten thousand years ago, perhaps that tragedy would never have happened.
In truth, given the Savior's current capability, he really might have been able to maintain good relationships with the Primarchs.
He might even have hosted a few banquets before Horus' betrayal, asking them to give him face and not stab the Emperor in the back.
Though the most likely outcome would have been the Savior commanding all the Imperium's armies.
Because in that era, only the Emperor fully retiring could have eased all contradictions.
The Emperor watched the nursery's warm, harmonious scene, and suddenly felt a little unnecessary.
And a little lonely.
Inside the nursery, Eden was smiling—when an emergency message arrived from the Departmento Munitorum.
The Librarians had received a warning from Corvus Corax.
The Primarch was tracking an Imperial traitor, and had sensed a dreadful conspiracy.
"Hiss…
How is that bastard still alive? Crawling out again to dump a bucket of filth into the Imperium?!"
When Eden saw the name in the message, he felt instantly sick.
That was almost the most disgusting being in the entire galaxy, and one of the Imperium's most infamous traitors!
(End of Chapter)
[Get +30 Extra Chapters On — P@tr3on "Zaelum"]
[Every 300 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter Drop]
[Thanks for Reading!]