The images on the screen shifted.
Time advanced to the middle and late stages of the [Siege of Terra].
Location: Holy Terra, the outer wall defense line of the Imperial Palace.
This place had turned into a purgatory.
The sky was dyed a sickly purplish-red by orbital bombardment, and the ground trembled under continuous artillery fire.
The warriors of the Imperial Fists were holding their ground on the walls, their yellow power armor stained dark brown by smoke and blood.
Rogal Dorn stood on the command tower, gazing into the distance with a solemn expression.
His fortifications were nothing short of perfect; every firing point and every trench had been precisely calculated. He was confident he could repel any conventional assault.
Until—
"Rumble..."
The earth began to shake, and a dull roar, like the cracking of tectonic plates, echoed from behind the rebel positions.
"What is that?" Sigismund, standing beside Dorn, squinted his eyes at the distant, slowly rising giant mechanical shadow that looked like a moving mountain.
Through a high-magnification auspex, Dorn saw its true form.
Massive treads crushed the ruins, and gun barrels as thick as factory chimneys pointed straight at the sky. They still ironically bore the emblem of the First Legion's Dark Angels—though it had been crudely painted over by the Iron Warriors with the eight-pointed star of Chaos and yellow-and-black hazard stripes.
"Those are... grand edict cannon."
Dorn's voice sounded like it was squeezed out from between his teeth.
"Those are the divine machines of Mars... Why do the rebels have heavy firepower of this caliber?"
Before he could figure it out, the giant cannons fired.
There were no flashy beams, only pure, destructive physical kinetic energy and torrents of plasma.
"BOOM—!!!"
The first shell struck the void shield generator on the outer side of the wall.
That layer of energy shielding, claimed to be able to withstand nuclear attacks, instantly overloaded, flickered, and then popped like a soap bubble.
The second shell hit the wall directly.
That section of the wall, cast from adamantium and ceramite and reinforced by Dorn's personal supervision for years, was like a sandcastle on a beach before this shot.
The massive explosion kicked up a mushroom cloud hundreds of meters high. Hundreds of Imperial Fists warriors were vaporized along with the rubble before they could even scream.
A massive breach was torn in the defense line.
"For the Lord of Iron!!"
Like a tide, the Iron Warriors flooded frantically through the gap.
The screen cut to the rebel command post in the rear.
Perturabo stood before a holographic projection, watching the collapsing wall with that signature gloomy and satisfied sneer on his face.
Beside him were those several steaming grand edict cannon.
"The walls Dorn was so proud of are nothing more than this."
Perturabo stroked the gun carriage as if caressing a lover's skin. He turned his head and spoke to the Warsmith beside him:
"You must remember, this is not just a victory of firepower; it is... a victory of friendship."
"Thanks to the generous gift of Lion ElJonson."
Perturabo even raised a glass of wine in an incredibly punchable manner, toasting the void:
"He hoped I would make good use of them at a critical moment."
"I have done so. I think there is no moment more 'critical' than blowing open the gates of Terra."
"Truly a man of his word, My Lord."
The Warsmith nearby also let out a piercing laugh.
"The First Legion's equipment is indeed useful. If they knew who these cannons were being used against, I wonder if that 'First Primarch' would be so angry he'd pull his beard out."
"He won't know."
Perturabo sneered, "Even if he did, it's too late. That egomaniac is probably still playing his game of cat and mouse at the edge of the galaxy, dreaming of becoming the Warmaster."
"BOOM!"
Another loud bang, and another section of the Imperial Palace wall collapsed.
In the real-world Throne Room.
Rogal Dorn's face was more than just livid; his entire body was trembling. It was from pure rage.
He looked at the breach on the screen, at the flooding rebels, and at the defense line he had painstakingly built being destroyed by a few cannons that should have belonged to allies.
This feeling was like painstakingly locking all your doors and windows against thieves, only for your brother to copy the spare key a hundred times and hand them out to the burglars.
"Lion..."
Dorn turned around, staring intently at the Dark Angels Primarch who was currently shrinking into his chair, wishing he could turn invisible.
"Those dead Imperial Fists... those Custodes and mortals who sacrificed their lives because the walls collapsed... half of their debt is on your head."
"I... I will compensate for it."
Lion's voice was as small as a mosquito's buzz. This usually arrogant Lion was now as timid as a large cat caught in the rain.
"I have a lot of stock... I can give you new equipment... I can give you stronger weapons..."
"I don't want your equipment!"
Dorn roared.
"I'm afraid the guns you give me would have bullets that fire backward!"
"Pfft..."
The Khan really couldn't hold it in anymore.
"Sorry, although the occasion is inappropriate."
The Khan shrugged.
"But this joke is just too... too much black humor."
"This is called 'lifting a rock only to drop it on one's own feet'."
Fulgrim added elegantly, "Or 'handing a knife to the killer'. Lion, your generosity is truly... impressive."
Even the most honest and kind Vulkan looked at Lion with a complicated expression:
"Brother, although we must trust each other... next time before you send out weapons of mass destruction, could you perhaps make a call to confirm if the recipient is still serving the Emperor?"
Lion was speechless.
What could he say? That he was lightheaded at the time because of the phrase "the position of Warmaster is rightfully yours"? That he was too eager to win votes?
That would only make him look stupider.
As the "beneficiary," Perturabo's mood was exceptionally pleasant at this moment.
Although he knew he was a traitor in the future, and although he knew the ending was destined to be a tragedy.
At least at this moment, watching Dorn suffer and Lion lose face, he felt an unprecedented joy.
"This illustrates a principle."
Perturabo looked at the screen and said leisurely:
"Sometimes, a nice compliment is more useful than an entire Legion."
"Brother Lion, you really are a good person. Truly."
"Shut up!"
Lion snapped in embarrassment and anger.
"Once I get out of here, the first thing I'll do is lead my troops to level your Olympia!"
"Too late."
Perturabo spread his hands. "I've already leveled it myself."
"..."
Lion was choked into silence.
In the corner, Alpharius (or Omegon) was frantically recording something on his data slate.
[Note: Lion ElJonson is extremely susceptible to soft approaches rather than hard ones. He lacks resistance to flattery. Furthermore, he has serious blindness in political opportunism.]
[Suggestion: If engaging him in the future, prepare more tall hats and false political promises; perhaps the First Legion's resources can be swindled away without shedding a drop of blood.]
This farce finally ended with a sigh from the Emperor.
[This tells us,] the Emperor's thoughts echoed in everyone's minds, [the importance of intelligence work.]
[And...]
The Emperor glanced at Lion.
[From now on, all resource movements of the First Legion must undergo a secondary review by Malcador.]
[Especially things like sending heavy weapons to other legions; it is absolutely forbidden.]
Lion lowered his head like a child who had his pocket money privileges revoked by a parent: "Yes, Father."
Dorn, meanwhile, gave a cold snort from the side: "Better to review his mouth as well. Lest he goes off promising the position of Warmaster to someone else again."