Perturabo's massive holographic image loomed over the sky; he roared, his voice filled with agony.
His weathered face was contorted with rage.
The heavy power armor on Perturabo's body let out a piercing groan, every joint strained by its master's agitation.
Faced with this fury, the Sisters beside Leticia reacted differently.
Angronia shouldered her Chainaxe and grinned. Her amber eyes lit up; this was the familiar rage belonging to a Primarch.
For the first time, a trace of pity appeared in Fogremia's purple eyes. She could understand the pain of a creator whose work had been ruthlessly trampled upon.
Magna simply stood there quietly, maintaining her composure. In her crimson eyes, streams of data flashed rapidly, as if she were analyzing Perturabo's current emotional fluctuations.
As for Leticia, she had been quietly watching the giant in the sky from beginning to end.
There was no expression on her face.
In her calm, pure black eyes, the roaring giant was no different from a child rolling on the ground and crying because their building blocks had been knocked over.
"Answer me!"
Perturabo's giant hand swept through the air.
He pointed toward the ruins composed of gold and crystals.
He then pointed to the iron fortresses marked by crimson points of light.
"Why have you come here?"
"Why desecrate my life's work! Why mock my creations!"
His roar echoed across the Iron Plains, heavy with resentment.
"This is a bulwark forged of logic and steel! A poem written in mathematics and blood!"
"This is the answer to war!"
"You... thieves who understand nothing of the art of war! Robbers! Desecrators!"
His voice grew hoarse with emotion; the agony suppressed for ten thousand years poured out at this moment.
"Do you know how many of the sons who followed me I sacrificed to calculate every single firing angle?"
"Do you know how much blood and sweat I shed to forge every inch of armor?"
"You know nothing!"
"You only know how to use those flashy tricks I cannot comprehend to destroy it! To mock it!"
"Why?"
Perturabo's voice gradually took on a mournful tone.
His massive holographic image began to flicker violently, unable to maintain a stable form.
"Why... why is it that the castle that fool Dorn piled up with stones could be called the Imperial Fists by Father and praised as a hero by the world!"
"While I! The steel I forged with life and logic! Only earned betrayal! Only earned mockery!"
"Why?"
"Why does no one ever understand me! Why does no one ever recognize me!"
In the end, his questioning was no longer directed at Leticia and her group.
He seemed to be questioning the cold universe.
He seemed to be questioning his father on the Golden Throne, who had long since turned to bone.
He seemed to be questioning all his brothers on Terra who had abandoned him.
The actions of Fogremia and Magna had ignited the loneliness and inferiority buried at the very bottom of his soul.
It erupted violently.
All of Medrengard trembled within his mournful cry.
Those cold iron fortresses seemed to feel their master's pain; their dark muzzles lowered silently.
The clashes on the battlefield had long since ceased.
At this moment, only Perturabo's vent remained—an outpouring ten thousand years overdue.
He exposed his most vulnerable side, completely defenseless, before these people he viewed as enemies.
Within the garden, a deathly silence persisted for a long time.
The Battle Intent on Angronia's face had faded at some point, and she fell into a silence she herself could not understand.
She hated such weak mourning.
Yet this cry reminded her of the wails of her slave brothers who were tortured to death by the Butcher's Nails in the Colosseum of Nuceria.
That roar echoed over the Iron Plains for a long time.
Until his voice became hoarse and weak, finally subsiding completely.
The massive holographic image in the sky also became blurred due to energy depletion, on the verge of dissipating at any moment.
Just as this deathly silence was about to shroud the land once more.
Only then did Leticia slowly lift her calm, exquisite face.
She met those massive eyes in the sky, filled with pain and confusion.
In a tone so calm it was cold, devoid of any emotional fluctuation, she said softly:
"Your masterpiece is but a tomb."
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