About ten years had passed since Perturabo was reunited with his father and joined the Great Crusade, which aimed to reclaim the galaxy.
If one word were to summarize the Lord of Iron's decade-long entry into the galaxy, it would be 'Confusion'.
Perturabo was always confused.
When he was on his home world of Olympia, looking up at the desolate starry sky and that terrifying eyeball, he would be confused and lament the unfairness of fate, wondering why it had given him such wisdom, yet abandoned him among a group of mediocre mortals.
When he was reunited with his Gene-Seed Primarch, he was shocked to find his Legion so disappointing: they would lose almost half of their fighting strength in a simple battle. In his eyes, the Fourth Legion's soldiers were far from excellent warriors.
Thus, the phrase 'decimation' drifted softly from his lips. He coldly watched as the unfortunate ones chosen were beaten to death by their comrades, and he quickly fell into new confusion.
Why, even after such a warning, were his Gene-Seed Primarchs still not as good as the Shadow Wolves or the Dark Angels?
In this confusion, Perturabo commanded his Legion. The doubts in his heart expanded with the continuation of the war, which inevitably affected his mood and work efficiency, but he just couldn't help it; he became increasingly confused by more disappointing realities.
Just like now, a new confusion was forming in Perturabo's mind, growing and expanding, irritating the Gene-Seed Primarch immensely.
Why, why were his Gene-Seed Primarchs, his carefully selected Trident, still not as good as a mortal under Magnus?
Why did these guys always disappoint him so much?
——
Were they dissatisfied? Were they resisting his rule in this way?
And his brother, Magnus, why did he insist on leaving a mortal here?
Was this a show of defiance? A boast? Did he truly not know of this mortal's excellence? Was he truly just being careless when he arranged for this mortal to stay here?
Was Magnus mocking him? Mocking his Gene-Seed Primarchs? Mocking his Legion? Or... mocking him, the Gene-Seed Primarch of the Iron Warriors?
——
As his thoughts brewed, the Lord of Iron's face visibly darkened. His breathing unknowingly became heavy again, and Perturabo began to treat his work harshly, as if it were his mortal enemy.
When his Gene-Seed Primarchs, who were carrying out repair work on the Steadfast Light, sent him the results of the first phase of the project, Perturabo almost forced himself to find a problem. He unhesitatingly circled and re-circled the tiny flaw, and through the screen, he furiously rebuked his disappointing children, their crudeness and inferiority sickening him.
Fools!
He used this harsh mockery as the concluding remark for the project assessment, then closed the communication, leaving them to argue and solve the problem themselves.
Just then, he noticed the cessation of the mortal's working sounds beside him.
Morgan had finished organizing the last data file in front of her. According to the logical sequence and priority of various tasks, she sent all the data one by one to this Gene-Seed Primarch who never rested.
Although she was born with the most exquisite mastery of data and logic, dealing with such a vast amount for the first time still made her feel tired, not to mention carefully concealing her identity in front of a fellow Primarch. The effort of this matter was even more exhausting than the work itself.
But just as she was about to close her eyes to rest for a moment, Perturabo's cold tone came from beside her.
"The data for the seventh summary report is missing. Redo it, and complete it within fifteen minutes."
Morgan's almost narrowed blue eyes snapped open. She was certain that just before she closed her eyes, that seventh summary report was still perfectly displayed on Perturabo's electronic screen, awaiting his inspection.
"...Yes, my Lord."
She deliberately made her voice hesitate briefly before turning into firm execution, as this inexplicably missing file contained thousands of data entries, enough to cause a mortal pain.
And just as her fingers returned to the keyboard, Perturabo's voice came again. This time, there was an almost imperceptible tremor in his tone.
"No... no need."
"Leave it to me. You can... rest."
The Lord of Iron's head was held high, as if he intentionally didn't want the mortal to see.
——
You fool, what are you doing!
On his raised face, Perturabo's iron features were twisted.
What was the difference between venting his anger on a mortal, a mere mortal, and those vulgar cowards on Olympia!
Innate arrogance and artistic sensibility once again occupied Perturabo's mind. When he was consumed by the rage of jealousy and self-doubt, he was a tyrant who craved destruction, so he naturally destroyed the result that might have taken countless effort and time to produce, just as he had effortlessly destroyed his Gene-Seed Primarchs and countless kingdoms.
But when he witnessed the destruction of the results firsthand and heard the slow yet firm execution, the heart that held a love for art and logic once again occupied the realm of thought. Perturabo's other half, torn within him, questioned him—a soul composed of burden, silence, and unimaginable arrogance.
It had always been this way: whenever things didn't go as Perturabo hoped, he would get angry, become furious, and destroy and vent uncontrollably, until he witnessed his own actions. Then he would feel guilty and regretful, and silently repair it, feeling moved by his own silent efforts.
But this self-move could neither bring external applause nor alleviate his emotions, so his anger would accumulate again, waiting for the next outburst, cycle after cycle, until those calm and sensibility were worn away, leaving only an eternally angry and resentful tyrant.
But now, it was still too early. The Emperor's Crusade had just begun, and Perturabo's arduous battles and tempering were not enough to significantly diminish his calm.
Perturabo was silent. He began this extra work, this self-imposed task. He suppressed the anger and emotions in his heart, letting them scorch his soul.
Iron is not afraid of flames, he always believed that.
The data was processed at an extremely fast pace. For some reason only he understood, Perturabo meticulously reviewed Morgan's work, and the final results forced him to admit that this mortal's work capacity was indeed as outstanding as Magnus had described.
She was a person worthy of admiration.
At the same time, the Gene-Seed Primarch's innate senses roamed the secret chamber. He could hear Morgan, having been given the command to rest, first stretching her body, then carefully surveying the entire room behind him. Her gaze seemed to be immediately drawn to the massive colony mothership, the Steadfast Light, in the center of the city. Perturabo could hear her softly reasoning about something.
This reasoning lasted for a very short time. Afterward, he heard the sound of high-heeled boots treading on the marble floor. His superhuman senses faithfully relayed the movements of the sound's owner, and upon realizing where she was heading, the hairs on Perturabo's neck involuntarily stood on end.
As if drawn by their uniqueness, Morgan instinctively walked towards the deeper part of the secret chamber, where rows upon rows of half-human-height iron long tables were displayed, upon which various exquisite models and handicrafts were placed. Even in the dimly lit depths of the secret chamber, they still gleamed with the brilliant light of art and skill.
She could see those peculiar artworks: for instance, a model of a grand theater, clearly a half-finished product, and at the top of the theater, instead of an area for ventilation and walking, there were battlements serving a defensive purpose.
“Taliacron,” this name was written on the manuscript pressed beneath the model.
Next to it were more finished pieces: a model of a giant lighthouse, with murals of heroes slaying sea monsters carved upon it; a temple-like building, inside which layers of bookshelves and elevated debate platforms were faintly visible; and even more blueprints, rolled up and placed in the corner of the table. One unrolled blueprint depicted a golden lion statue, and at the feet of this mighty beast, a mark resembling a gift was written in Terran.
Morgan blinked.
She could feel that as her steps and gaze circled these artworks and half-finished products, the work rhythm of the Gene-Seed Primarch standing before the workbench was slightly disrupted, as if a true lion witnessing an ignorant cub stepping into his territory.
— — — — — —
Perturabo observed this offending mortal out of the corner of his eye; she was unconsciously walking in a place the Lord of Iron did not wish others to know about.
He watched her walk there, and a familiar feeling arose, reminding him of something.
Decades ago, when he was a talented child and general adopted by the tyrant of a city-state on Olympia, his adoptive father also walked among the artworks he had created in this manner.
He remembered the question he had asked his adoptive father then, and the answer he received; he had always remembered it.
So, when the last piece of data was organized with absolute correctness, he spoke.
“What are you looking at?”
— — — — — —
“I am looking at waste, useless and extravagant waste, my child, my Perturabo. You possess a god-given mind and strength, why waste your life on these useless things?”
“I can easily possess these so-called arts. Countless sculptors and painters gain superiority by receiving my patronage. With a snap of my fingers, their so-called art will become a glorification of me, even if those achievements never existed.”
“But you are different, my child. Your abilities should not be limited to these useless things. Look at your deadly inventions: tanks, artillery, and explosives. This is what you should be developing. They can easily achieve victory, dominate wars, and even conquer worlds!”
— — — — — —
“I am looking at art, Your Excellency. I am looking at a fervent heart, buried and misunderstood.”
The moment his adoptive father's voice faded from his mind, Morgan's answer followed immediately.
Completely opposite.
— — — — — —
Perturabo laughed.
He turned around, leaving his electronic screen for the first time. Behind him, commands that would keep the entire world busy for the rest of the day were being sent out in an orderly fashion.
“Art?”
“These are just some pastimes, Madam.”
“You must understand, I am a General. I do not need so-called art, and no one needs them. You should understand that you serve the Imperium, a place composed of the Emperor, Generals, and Legions.”
Perturabo spoke, stating his self-assessment, which he didn't believe in the slightest, and the reality he had to believe.
Then, he saw Morgan's smile.
“Do you like death, Your Excellency?”
This was almost an offense. The few short words successfully made the Lord of Iron's face darken again.
“If this is your poor metaphor, then I will tell you very clearly that in the galaxy, no one truly likes death, unless it is smashing it down on the heads of their enemies.”
“Yes, no one likes death, and no one wants death. Whether it is an individual, a Legion, or the Imperium, death is resisted.”
The silver-haired official crossed her fingers, resting them on her chin.
“Death is an ominous tranquility, a dark silence, and a sorrowful future with no more dreams, passions, changes, or surprises.”
“But isn't a world without art and aesthetics exactly like that?”
Perturabo was silent, his eyes hidden in shadow, his lips trembling, but he did not speak.
“When the galaxy is plunged into eternal warfare, and soldiers and bloodthirsty war machines advance across endless wastelands, and every person on every world has no mission other than to provide resources for man-eating wars, and paintings and songs are deemed useless waste, and idols occupy theaters, and scriptures obscure academia... What difference is there between such a world and death?”
“And we fight here, our journey crosses galaxies and star systems. We dedicate everything for a better future, isn't it precisely to prevent humanity's future from becoming like this?”
“…”
Heavy breathing.
Only then did Morgan seem to awaken from a dream. She lowered her head, realizing her offense to a Gene-Seed Primarch.
“Please forgive me, Your Excellency, I just…”
“No!”
Perturabo interrupted her. He was quiet for a moment until the final electronic sound came, signifying the end of the day's work—and a brief moment of rest.
Then, he pointed to a nearby seat, speaking in a commanding tone.
“Sit down.”
He said.
“Continue.”