"Who do you take me for? 'The Lion' Lion El'Jonson?"
Perturabo merely sneered in response, the corners of his mouth curling into a satirical arc upon his hideous face encased in armor and metal conduits.
As the Primarch of the Iron Warriors, Perturabo had always viewed the pursuit of honor as a sign of weakness.
On the surface, he affected complete indifference to any praise, viewing sacrifice and endurance as the true symbols of steadfastness.
Even if, deep down within his heart, that longing for honor and affection had never been extinguished.
That was precisely his inner contradiction.
Still... how should one put it?
Ten thousand years had passed.
Compared to the era of the Horus Heresy, Perturabo had broadened his perspective considerably.
Especially regarding the matter of the Warmaster.
Thinking back to it brought a faint smirk to Perturabo's lips.
During the Great Crusade, he had used that exact same flattering tactic—"you are the next Warmaster"—to trick a certain First Primarch out of his Ordinatus siege engines.
That scene remained vivid in his mind to this day.
Lion El'Jonson had been so delighted by a superficial promise that he believed he would naturally become the next Warmaster after the rebellion was put down, while Perturabo quietly pocketed those colossal war machines for himself.
And those Ordinatus engines had played a crucial role—both in the Isstvan campaign and later during the Siege of Terra.
The memory of those siege guns booming relentlessly, raining destruction upon Terra, brought a flush of pleasure to Perturabo's heart.
That dull, deafening roar had hammered repeatedly against the gates defended by Rogal Dorn.
He wondered what kind of expression must have surfaced on that stone-like face when Dorn watched those very Ordinatus engines—which should have belonged to the Imperium—pouring devastating ordnance onto his own defense lines.
Thinking of this, Perturabo could hardly keep his composure, the corner of his mouth twitching uncontrollably.
One could only say that it was indeed one of his most delightful memories.
Regarding this, Perturabo raised his head, his eyes burning with dark-red flames as he stared straight at Lorgar.
"You don't seriously think that with a few sweet words, I'll meekly follow your instructions, do you?"
His voice was saturated with unhidden sarcasm.
"And you don't seriously think I noticed nothing during the late stages of the Heresy, or lacked my own suspicions regarding Horus's unique state?"
'Chaos Warmaster.'
Perturabo gave a cold laugh.
How could he not know what that truly entailed?
The Four Chaos Gods required a puppet.
A puppet injected with all their power, and consequently controlled by all of them collectively.
It was simply that Horus had failed.
Now, with another entity emerging in the physical universe capable of threatening the Warp, They wanted to select a new candidate.
'How could I possibly fall for that trap?'
"What else can you say?"
Perturabo's fingers resting on the tabletop tightened slowly, his metallic joints emitting a dull cracking sound.
"Let me see what kind of garbage you can spit out."
"Peace, my brother, peace."
Lorgar waved his hand dismissively, the scriptural tattoos covering his arm swaying slightly with his movement like living things.
"Such haste brings no benefit."
His tone was unhurried, carrying even a chanted rhythm.
"Once you have listened to my description, you will understand what kind of blessings come with becoming the next champion of Chaos—the Chaos Warmaster."
Lorgar held up a single finger.
"First, the Four Chaos Gods promise to focus all their power onto you, rather than their wills. You shall clearly and rationally wield infinite, monumental force to wage that glorious war once again."
He paused, letting his words settle for a moment to give Perturabo time to process.
"When that time comes, all Chaos Astartes, all other Daemon Primarchs, and even the chief Greater Daemons under the Chaos Gods will obey your command."
"This time, we shall make the galaxy burn once more!"
Perturabo fell silent for a moment.
He envisioned such a scenario.
All the Legions.
All the Primarchs.
All the Daemons.
Every single one obeying his, Perturabo's, command.
No longer ordered around and micromanaged by Horus like during the Heresy—where even at crucial moments like the Siege of Terra, during his duel of wits against Dorn, he couldn't even retain full supreme command.
Instead, it would be true, unshakeable, absolute authority.
Perturabo spoke slowly.
"That... does sound somewhat interesting."
Much of the rage in his voice had ebbed away, replaced by cautious evaluation.
"I thought the title of Warmaster was merely an empty name. I didn't expect the Chaos Gods to be willing to make such a concession."
Then his tone shifted sharp again.
"However..."
Perturabo's gaze turned razor-sharp once more. "If that is the case, why don't you take the role yourself?"
Lorgar simply offered a dismissive wave of his hand, his movement fluid and effortless, without a shred of hesitation.
"My brother, isn't that a glaringly obvious truth?"
Lorgar smiled, his tone carrying an almost genuine compliment.
"Whether in terms of strategic command or raw martial strength, I am vastly inferior to you."
Indeed.
Devoid of any typical Primarch competitiveness or self-importance...
Lorgar began belittling himself without a second thought.
Upon his tattoo-covered face, the smile was measured just right—neither excessively flattering nor appearing insincere.
"Especially you, Perturabo. Among us all, your commanding intellect stands second to none. No one can match you—no one at all."
The atmosphere eased noticeably.
Upon Perturabo's iron-hard face, the tight lines visibly relaxed.
Though he wouldn't say it aloud...
Lorgar's flattery clearly pleased him immensely.
It wasn't hard to notice.
Perturabo had never been particularly adept at hiding his emotions.
He believed he was maintaining a stern front, but that subtle twitch of relaxation on his face couldn't escape Lorgar's eyes.
Realizing his rhetoric had taken effect, Lorgar immediately smiled.
He pressed on.
"However, to achieve all this... the first obstacle we must resolve is that entity. That newly emerged presence walking the galaxy, revered by all humanity as a god."
"You haven't stepped into the physical universe for a long time, so you may lack a concept of His strength. But you can essentially view Him as another Emperor from the Great Crusade era, walking the physical world—our Father."
"The kind who can compress a star into a miniature figurine and gift it to a favored child."
Lorgar's tone was remarkably serene, as if merely stating self-evident facts.
"However, there is no doubt that He was born into the galaxy only recently, with little time on His side. In terms of deep reserves or experience, He falls far short of the Ruinous Powers behind the veil of Chaos. He lacks tempering. Therefore, when He faces the most terrifying assault, that will be our opportunity."
Lorgar's tone remained utterly calm.
He felt no concern that such a blunt description would shake Perturabo, for this brother had always prided himself on fearlessness.
Even if he were afraid... Perturabo would never admit it out loud. In fact, his stubborn nature would only drive him to grit his teeth and accept the challenge anyway.
That was how well Lorgar understood Perturabo!
Furthermore, he wasn't without trump cards.
He was about to offer Perturabo a condition he could not refuse.
Without any warning, Lorgar casually dropped a piece of news.
A piece of news that hit Perturabo like a bolt from the blue.
"Furthermore—the Chaos Gods have promised another thing."
Lorgar leaned forward slightly, a profound expression appearing on his scripture-covered face.
"Should you desire it, They will guide you to hunt down the trail of Rogal Dorn."
'BOOM.'
The air exploded.
"WHAT?!"
Perturabo's eyes widened instantly.
Those pupils burning with dark-red flames flickered violently, as if a bucket of fuel had been poured onto them.
A towering surge of rage and hatred erupted like flames from an abyss the moment he heard that name.
The armor plating across his massive iron frame trembled, white steam venting wildly from his conduit joints.
A volcanic torrent of terrifying energy radiated from his body, igniting the surrounding air with sharp, popping snaps.
Without a shred of restraint—or rather, after hearing that name, Perturabo no longer cared about anything else.
He had completely lost his composure.
'Rogal Dorn.'
At the mere sound of that name, the rage in Perturabo's heart burned uncontrollably, impossible to extinguish.
That damned fellow, that stubborn stonehead who would never bend.
No language could describe his hatred for that man, nor capture the ten-thousand-year feud tangled between their two Legions.
Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists.
Spear and Shield.
Offense and Defense.
An eternal war.
Without a shadow of a doubt...
With this intelligence provided, Perturabo would pursue it relentlessly.
Find him.
Kill him.
Vanquish him—
—No, far more than just vanquishing him.
Perturabo swore he would personally tear down that damned stonehead, crush him beneath his iron boots, and humiliate him completely, forcing him to acknowledge who was truly the stronger, more perfect one!
"WHERE IS DORN?!"
Perturabo's voice was practically a roar. The immense volume shook the surrounding xenos structures, causing fine dust to cascade continuously from the wall fissures.
"Peace, peace," Lorgar raised a hand to interrupt him once more, his tone exceptionally gentle.
"Allow me to outline the full plan for you to become the avatar of the Chaos Gods first, and then you may make your decision."
Perturabo gasped heavily several times.
Then, he reined himself in.
That boiling rage was forcibly suppressed deep into his chest, replaced by something icy and far more dangerous.
Perturabo settled back into his seat, locking his gaze on Lorgar.
"I am listening."
His voice regained its cold hardness, but Lorgar could tell that this fellow was thoroughly shaken.
Lorgar smiled once more.
"It is very simple. You likely have your own suspicions already, do you not?"
His tone remained gentle, like a parent patiently explaining a concept to a child.
"How we—the Primarchs—were created by our Father in the first place."
Perturabo said coldly, "Go on."
"It is simple: we are all creatures of the Warp. Father drew us out from the Warp using his profound technologies, gave us physical form, and ultimately attempted to brainwash us into obeying the lies he spun, serving humanity."
Lorgar's tone was persuasive and encouraging.
"That is the truth I uncovered. And precisely because of this, every Primarch possesses their own divine essence. Even if steeped in our Father's lies for too long, that transcendent nature within them never vanishes—it must manifest. Whether loyal or traitorous, that fundamental essence endures forever."
'Indeed.'
Hearing this, Perturabo let out a cold laugh.
"Yes, ten thousand years ago, you almost sacrificed my essence to the Warp."
"You didn't think I forgot about that, did you?"
Lorgar went silent for a moment.
This time, he truly went silent for a brief second.
However, as the thickest-skinned among all the Primarchs, he brushed past the comment in the very next instant as if nothing had happened.
His expression remained gentle, his smile stable, as though those words were merely irrelevant background noise blowing past his ears.
"Indeed, that is precisely what I was about to address," Lorgar smoothly redirected the conversation.
"Among all the Primarchs, Rogal Dorn's fundamental essence is extraordinarily close to yours."
Perturabo's pupils contracted slightly.
"Sacrificing his essence and digesting it as your nourishment will allow you to reach an unimaginable level of power. When that time comes, nothing will be able to stand in your way."
Lorgar's voice raised slightly in pitch. Upon his scripture-covered face, those eyes gleamed with a golden, almost pious radiance.
"Meanwhile, those who surrendered themselves to the Ruinous Powers early on lost this very essence instead—a foolish act beyond measure."
Perturabo did not speak, nor did he interrupt.
His silence was an answer in itself.
"Furthermore, the Chaos Gods promise that Their influence over you will not stop there. Once you achieve total victory—representing the Warp defeating the physical universe once more—you may gain everything you desire."
Lorgar smiled, as if reading aloud a pre-drafted covenant.
"Whether it be honor..."
"...or ascending as the next great deity."
"All of this shall be yours by right."
A long silence descended once again between the two Daemon Primarchs.
In the end, Perturabo let out a cold sneer.
Without a moment's hesitation:
"I agree."
Perturabo had already made up his mind long ago.
'Rogal Dorn.'
That stone-like face, those eyes that would never yield, his ultimate rival...
No matter what, catch him first!
Once his vengeance was exacted, everything else could be negotiated later!