After Eden finished speaking, he waited for the Lord of Iron's reply.
It was a major decision.
He believed Perturabo would not abandon victory that was already within reach, nor the technology of Humanity's golden age.
Even the Iron Warriors Legion mattered less to him than technical knowledge, especially when his competitiveness flared.
That man would most likely choose to duel him, even at the risk of losing the Iron Warriors.
"But for me, the risk isn't low either."
Eden thought to himself.
"If I lose, it's not just a catastrophic loss of assets. It also means Perturabo gains a pile of rare technological results, creating unknown risks."
He had already made up his mind. If he truly got unlucky and Chaos obtained the Dreamweaver and the Imperial Emperor, along with everything that came with them…
Then he could only sacrifice part of his development, pour money into research and military expenditure like a madman, and start an arms race.
"The Savior is this confident… what exactly is he planning?"
Perturabo stared at the holographic projection, hesitating.
His hesitation was not about whether he would lose the Iron Warriors, but whether he could actually win.
On the analysis device before him, a bright, glaring number floated there: 89.9999%.
That was his win probability.
Calculated from all known data, excluding any subjective bias.
He trusted that cold logic. Formulas did not lie.
Perturabo fixed his gaze on the win-rate figure, his smile faintly feral.
"Fine. I accept. If you win, the Iron Warriors Legion will be yours."
The moment he spoke, the Iron Warriors commanders behind him froze.
Their gene-sire was usually cold, violent, and ruthless, but they had not expected him to wager his own sons.
Even if they had already fallen into Chaos Undivided, such indifference still wounded. It was humiliating.
"My lord…"
Aharin's voice rose in the smoke-choked chamber, carrying worry and confusion.
He was the palest of the Iron Warriors' sons, his skin faintly reflecting the firelight.
"Speak your thoughts. You seem to disagree?"
Perturabo turned his head.
He stared at Aharin and the captains and Librarians behind him, his expression indifferent.
"We are not cargo. Such a wager is not a wise choice."
"Perhaps we should have the Savior change his terms, otherwise…"
Aharin's voice trembled as he pleaded.
This son had silently guarded his father for a long time, serving as the closest adviser and bodyguard.
Only he dared speak when the Lord of Iron made a major decision.
Anyone else would likely meet thunderous wrath, even death.
"Every decision I make carries the advantage of logical calculation. Are you questioning my decision?"
Perturabo's face twisted slightly, anger brewing.
"I have countless reasons to answer you. But not now."
"Father!"
Aharin, encased in a brutal Terminator suit, showed a trace of something like heartbreak.
He dropped to one knee.
"I know the win probability is high, but we do not wish to accept any risk of losing you."
"Even if that risk is, by calculation, infinitely close to zero."
"More than that, the Iron Warriors are not cargo. We are your sons!"
Not only that pale son. The other Iron Warriors captains and Librarians dropped to their knees as well.
They knelt in a clatter, utterly loyal.
Even now, there was no furious rebellion, no violent outrage.
Only the hope that their gene-sire would reconsider.
"Are you trying to defy me?"
"Or are you trying to betray the Lord of Iron, betray your master? If so, draw your swords now!"
Perturabo's already-thin patience finally snapped.
He had no patience for this.
He would rather spend his time on what he considered meaningful.
Such as months shut in a sealed chamber researching an ancient technology, or an entire week in a gallery of collected art, doing nothing but appreciating it.
"Unforgivable!"
Perturabo stepped forward and seized Aharin by the throat, his twisted temperament erupting in full.
He had not expected his sons to contradict him in front of the Savior, to collectively pressure him like this.
More importantly, he knew his sons carried an intolerable flaw.
Their rational thirst for knowledge was laced with too much emotion, along with an uncontrollable impatience and stubbornness.
Combined, those traits would inevitably challenge his authority.
They had to be frustrated, even crushed.
Otherwise, once the seed of arrogance took root, the boundary between them and him would blur, then dissolve.
His authority would slide, and open hostility could follow.
To the Lord of Iron, his sons were not good enough. They were terrible.
Loyalty alone was not enough.
He wanted sons as obedient as data-engines: input the command, receive flawless execution.
That was why he often issued orders for them to fight wars with very low win probabilities.
He used cold directives to harden the Legion's obedience, and to cull the unqualified.
"The only thing you can do is obey. Obey me. Do you understand?"
Perturabo lifted Aharin off the ground, his grip tightening until suffocation set in.
He did not want to kill any son. That was a waste of resources.
Unless they had to die.
"Fa… Father…"
Aharin heard bones crack. Several vertebrae had fractured, blood vessels suffering small-scale ruptures.
If this continued, he would be dying in seconds.
He was deeply hurt, but his mutated body no longer had tears.
At the edge of death, he forced himself to nod.
To show acceptance of his gene-sire's decision.
He knew it was beyond saving. Only one path remained: support the outcome.
And that knowledge chilled him to the bone.
Not only Aharin. The other Iron Warriors present felt the same.
A grief like abandonment.
Even though it had not yet happened, the attitude alone proved everything.
In their gene-sire's eyes, the Iron Warriors were merely tradable resources.
But if they did not support him, what else could they do?
Sorrow spread through the chamber. The Iron Warriors fell silent.
"Aharin, I hope you accept this lesson. Perhaps this is the last time I tolerate you."
Perturabo saw no further objections and nodded in satisfaction.
He spent a few milliseconds calculating the impact of Aharin's death, then chose to spare him.
He tossed Aharin to the floor and said stiffly, "Your worries are foolish sentiment. I will win this duel. That result is inevitable."
"The chance of a variable is vanishingly small."
Then he turned back to the holographic projection and continued the process with the Savior.
"I accept your terms. Next, we will use a sorcerous ritual array to sign the contract."
"A warp-bonded pact is our guarantee. It protects both parties' interests to the greatest extent, ensuring the victor receives the spoils."
"That is a necessary step."
Eden, seeing Perturabo accept every rule and condition, smiled with satisfaction.
He also needed a pact, to prevent any post-match reneging.
"That man needs to be sent to the Emperor himself for a thorough reworking and repentance."
Eden watched what Perturabo had just done and quietly reflected.
The Lord of Iron was even more twisted and extreme than before, and likely even harsher on the Iron Warriors.
Even cruel.
Those loyal Chaos warriors were truly unlucky to have such a gene-sire.
More bizarre still, they showed no intent to resist, only to obey.
If they were high-ranking sons under other primarchs, this would have sparked a revolt long ago.
They would have drawn forty-metre-long swords and smashed their gene-sire into paste.
Because most high-ranking sons were not exactly mild-mannered.
Typhus, for example, directly stabbed his own gene-sire in the back, that big flappy moth Mortarion.
Luther, the First of the Fallen, bombarded Lion El'Jonson's fleet, and even put his gene-sire down.
And Erebus was on an entirely different level: he lured Lorgar into the pit, and then dragged other primarchs into it too, becoming one of the key figures behind the Horus Heresy.
By comparison, the Iron Warriors, though fallen into Chaos Undivided, were top-tier honest men: smart, and extremely obedient.
"Perturabo has sons this good, and he still doesn't appreciate it."
Eden sighed. The twisted mind truly was full of contradictions, tormenting and testing even his own sons.
If another primarch tried this, he would probably have his life-support unplugged by his own gene-sons.
Still, stacked side by side…
It was hard not to laugh.
The Lord of Iron treated the Iron Warriors this way, and they did not revolt.
Lion did nothing, yet half of the Dark Angels betrayed him. They destroyed their homeworld and nearly killed the Lion.
No wonder the Dark Angels sealed the news and hunted the Fallen.
This could never be spoken aloud. It was too shameful.
Even their gene-sire became a stain of disgrace, clouding the Dark Angels' glory.
Eden thought silently.
In contrast, the Iron Warriors' loyalty and value-for-money were the highest.
Exactly the kind of Legion he wanted.
Once he won the Iron Warriors, he would be delighted.
That was an entire Legion. How many years of development and resource investment would that save?
It would be an enormous boost to the Imperium's growth.
More importantly, they were intelligent, mechanically skilled, with large numbers of Warpsmiths, and they could move freely through the Warp and the galaxy.
Their utility was even greater.
That was why Eden dared to propose this to Perturabo.
Because the Iron Warriors were obedient.
Once he won, they would most likely follow their gene-sire's prior order and accept the Savior's command.
At least at the beginning, their resistance would not be intense.
With Eden and Perturabo's arrangements, preparations began for this special war.
It might be one of the highest-stakes wagers in ten thousand years.
Both sides sent senior Librarians to construct Warp arrays and sorcerous formations.
The Dreamweaver's personnel were evacuated, and the treasured fortress-vehicle was driven to the edge of the ritual storm.
Other vehicles, such as the Imperial Emperor, did the same, approaching the arrays near the Warp rift.
If the Savior lost, the array would activate according to the agreed rules, instantly throwing the Dreamweaver, the Imperial Emperor, and other prized war-assets into the Iron Warriors' Warp-controlled zone.
They would become the Lord of Iron's spoils.
Meanwhile, the Iron Warriors, under Perturabo's orders, swore that if the Savior won, they would become his Legion.
They would die in loyalty.
This was not only a matter of honor.
It was also the supervision of Warp arrays, the deterrence of a mysterious curse.
Ensuring the Legion's transfer could proceed smoothly.
"Preparations are basically complete. We should depart for the Lord of Iron's Chaos foundry-fortress."
Eden turned to Tarko, and asked again with lingering concern.
"Based on current data, what's our win probability?"
This was a massive bet. No caution was excessive.
So the informatics division continued to collect updated data and use analysis engines to predict our chances.
As events evolved and data updated, the probability shifted dynamically.
He wanted the latest figure before departure.
Tarko received the newest probability and his face changed immediately.
"Savior above, I… our latest win probability…"
He projected the number as a hologram.
Eden saw it and nearly had his heart stop.
99.99%.
Terrifying.
Too unlucky. It was practically the same as announcing defeat.
On paper, it was infinitely close to guaranteed victory.
But this was a war in which the Changer of Ways was personally involved.
A number like that, from a superstitious angle, was naked conspiracy.
It would inevitably flip.
"This has to be wrong. Have them check whether anything was missed, and run it again."
Eden took a deep breath.
He might be cautious and he might be holding back, but he could not endure the Changer of Ways tearing the world apart for sport.
If Guilliman had not stepped on the trap for him earlier, he would have fallen into the snare built by multiple Chaos Gods and been ground into the dirt.
He did not want to see that sacred number again.
He wanted to resolve the Lord of Iron cleanly, and then find that brother who was currently being battered.
"Savior, the informatics division has received new intelligence data."
Tarko frowned as he reported, worry heavy in his tone.
"The Lord of Iron's Chaos mechanical host has also employed Excindio-tech. Their individual combat capability is stronger than our automated troops."
They had underestimated the Lord of Iron's technical strength.
This would increase the risk of failure.
"New intel…"
Eden felt numb.
It was bad news, but if it shifted the previous win-rate, then in a twisted sense, it was good.
Meaning: this bad news was, in fact, the kind of bad news he needed.
Not long after, Eden saw the updated win probability.
69.13%.
By the Savior's standards, it was awful.
The risk was huge.
He sighed.
"So be it. At least it's better than the previous one. Some risks can't be avoided. If it's time to go, we go."
Most importantly, the risk this time was assets and resources, not his life.
As the Savior, nothing frightened him less than burning money.
If the Dreamweaver and the Imperial Emperor were truly lost, then he would simply work harder, and try to fish new prizes out of the Warp.
"The traitors' side is extremely dangerous. They might set a trap. You should take more guards."
Tarko watched as the Savior prepared to go to the foundry-fortress with only ten Custodian Wardens.
He was worried.
Eden shook his head and refused.
"This is enough."
"Too many would only make them wary or hostile, causing unforeseen outcomes."
"The Lord of Iron won't set a trap. At least, not under these circumstances."
Perturabo was a supreme knot of contradictions, a proud and prickly creature.
Until the duel ended, he would not use a trap.
Instead, he would remove obstacles and defeat Eden fairly.
And ever since Fulgrim's trap and that Maugetar Stone drained a large portion of his essence, he despised the idea of trickery even more.
He preferred overwhelming machinery and saturation bombardment.
In short, Eden's safety was secure.
And if anything truly went wrong, he could always don his personal war-plate, the Armor of Redemption, and carve his way out.
…
Rumble, rumble, rumble.
Ahead of the Imperial Emperor, a frenzied tide of Chaos machinery surged forward.
In accordance with the agreement, the Lord of Iron released his mechanical host.
These were the most elite war machines, built with Excindio-tech.
They were called Dark Automata.
On Eden's side, the Tempest Army Group released an equal number of automated battle-automata.
The two mechanical tides slammed into each other, unleashing catastrophic destructive power as the surface of the world was torn apart.
This was the first contest.
A contest of machines.
It would not end until one side was annihilated.
Inside the Warp-Animated Chaos Foundry, the second contest, the contest of force, was underway.
Custodes and large numbers of elite Iron Warriors faced one another.
At the center stood the dueling platform.
There, the two primarchs clashed fiercely.
Their silhouettes interwove, so fast they left only afterimages.
Even the Custodes and the Iron Warriors' elites had to strain to catch the remnants of motion, just to understand what was happening.
It was not a duel they could participate in.
Then, suddenly, both primarchs stopped.
Eden lowered his slender sword and shook his head in disappointment.
"Lord of Iron. Your strategy was successful. I lost."
He admitted defeat cleanly, and bowed slightly in the old etiquette of swordsmanship.
Elegant to the last.
"That was inevitable."
Perturabo returned the bow, a faint sneer on his face.
"Your swordsmanship is terrible."
In the contest of force, he had chosen the optimal solution: a pure duel of swordsmanship.
It was a contest of technique.
This minimized the Savior's advantage in brute strength.
He knew Eden preferred to crush opponents with overwhelming power.
Technique was where Eden was weakest.
The Savior had trained in swordsmanship for too short a time.
He could not defeat beings who had lived ten thousand years.
Perturabo paused, then added, "A pity you only met me."
"Against others, your swordsmanship would be enough to win. It's not bad."
Even as he mocked, he still praised Eden.
A rare occurrence.
"Lord of Iron, perhaps I could ask you to teach me a couple of moves."
Eden answered.
He and Perturabo discussed swordsmanship, and the atmosphere was unexpectedly harmonious.
No powder-keg. No killing intent.
The Custodes and the Iron Warriors stared at the two primarchs chatting, both sides equally baffled.
Weren't they supposed to be at war?
Why were they talking like this?
Without realizing it, Eden had raised Perturabo's opinion of him.
To handle a twisted man, sincerity worked.
So long as you had the strength to back it up.
That man was like a gloomy outcast with no friends.
Deep down, he craved a friend.
Otherwise, he would never have been fooled so completely by Fulgrim's overtures in the first place.
"We proceed to the third contest. This time, I choose the category."
Eden ended the discussion of swordsmanship.
The contest of force had been chosen by Perturabo.
Now the contest of knowledge would be chosen by Eden.
He smiled.
"Not to hide it, I'm actually a man of culture…"
Sincerity was sincerity.
But he still intended to win this special war and take the Iron Warriors Legion whole.
This time, he would show the Lord of Iron what a true man of culture, a true artist, looked like.
(End of Chapter)
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