Chapter 292: A Rabble Has No Hope of Winning
Compared to Forrix, who had always maintained a defensive posture, Perturabo's own pieces advanced more aggressively, occupying the left half of the board and allowing him to constantly be on the offensive.
Click.
Forrix moved a piece on the board. He picked up one of the Chancellors in the front row and carefully placed it to the side of a pawn, leaving a small opening in Perturabo's attack route. He then took a step back, waiting for the other's next move. But it was a trap. If he were to name it, he would call it the "Battle of the Eternity Wall."
Perturabo had a deep impression of this battle, because it involved two players who knew each other's weaknesses, and one overconfident fool. He almost couldn't help but laugh.
"I remember this move," he said. He remembered the battle that had raged around the entire Imperial Palace during the Great Heresy. In the south of the Eternity Wall, Dorn had prepared a trap for him. He had never been able to break Dorn's defense, even though he had seen through the Seventh Legion master's layout.
Abaddon: Hahahaha, I don't laugh at others, but I laugh at that Dorn for being without a plan, at Malcador for being without wisdom. Even Perturabo only discovered this defensive loophole after I reminded him. If I were in command, what would happen if I were to first break into the sanctum from here?
And our Chaos Warmaster, in that self-righteous attack, had gotten nothing but a group of Justaerin Terminators cast in concrete.
"To this day, I still do not know how to break the game," Perturabo said frankly to his son. It was a difference in numbers. What did it matter if he saw through it? With the state of the traitor forces at the time, unless Horus could really kill the Emperor in the subsequent duel, then defeat was inevitable. A few hundred light-years away from them were Guilliman's 250,000 Ultramarines and over 4,000 capital ships. Reality would not give him the time to fight for a moment of pique.
"My Lord," Forrix replied nervously, "we are invincible."
"No. There is no need to say that," Perturabo said, moving a piece. His tone even held a hint of comfort. "I know my limitations. And my temper will not affect my judgment."
This made Forrix even more confused. Yes, just like this. When had the Lord of Iron become like this?
Swoosh~
After confirming that he could not break the game, he pushed the board. The black and white pieces rolled into the auto-shuffler. Through the small observation window, Perturabo once again looked at the massive fleet.
"He knows what reality is, and what his brothers represent," this voice, carried by the vibration of the air, entered Forrix's brain, making him instinctively wonder if there was a problem with his Lyman's Ear. He had seen the Lord of Iron's vulnerable side many times, but he had never seen him so frank.
"Tell me, Forrix, what do you see?"
With a head full of doubts, Forrix followed the Lord of Iron's gaze. A massive fleet was gathered, but they were wary of each other. In their communication channels, the arguments and conflicts over Chaos faith and personal interests were endless. From time to time, a small warship would leave the formation and disappear into the void.
"A rabble," Forrix said honestly. Compared to the past of the Legion era, this was just a gang of bandits, forcibly gathered together.
"Exactly," Perturabo nodded with satisfaction, and then tapped a button on the edge of the table. A scene of the Dawnlight Sector's capital appeared on the hololithic projection. Forrix couldn't help but hold his breath. The scene before him was too magnificent.
Hoooorn—
A grand horn sounded in the sky of Dawnstar. The star-ring shifted. The spaceport was a scene of grim readiness. Countless banners floated in the void. The light of the star dyed the fleet gold.
Mortals, Adeptus Mechanicus, Astartes... warriors of different origins were united under the banner of a single regime. They swore their loyalty to the Primarchs amidst the cheers and blessings of countless citizens, and then embarked on their journey. Warships, soldiers... behind them, a countless number of logistical fleets stretched out, almost covering the entire port area, from the Pioneer system to the edge of the Dawnlight Sector. This was an iron tide, enough to crush any enemy. Even the lowest-ranking soldier was equipped with a full suit of void armour, their spirits high, their wargear in order. This killing machine, after ten years of maintenance, was undoubtedly in its best state.
It was as if a giant beast had opened its eyes and was casting its gaze upon a new hunting ground. "And what do you see now?"
Forrix was silent. He didn't know how to answer. His past experience told him that if any Iron Warrior had a higher opinion of another Primarch than Perturabo, then death would fall upon their heads.
"Prosperity. Strength," Perturabo's voice was filled with感慨, and even with his restraint, the envy in it was still clear. But he continued to speak, in Forrix's increasingly shocked gaze. "Orderly."
"A complete industrial system, capable of independently supporting a Legion of Astartes' fleet and combat equipment, capable of building a stable supply line spanning two sectors, and of making it impregnable in five years. They rule a great nation," he concluded. "An opponent we will face."
Perturabo was not deaf, nor blind, nor stupid. He would try to understand what kind of person his opponent was, to observe their weaknesses, and to summarize his own advantages. He looked at the four brothers in the image, a look of envy in his eyes, which quickly turned to jealousy. These were four brothers who could trust each other. True brothers.
If, in the Great Heresy, the four they had replaced had possessed such a strong bond, then Horus's so-called Great Heresy would have been a joke. At that time, everyone would have just gone home and washed up and waited to die.
Now they were opponents.
Perturabo looked at the warbands whose bloodlines originated from other Primarchs, and his brow instinctively furrowed. And his theoretical allies on his side...
Angron—a slave! A slave of the fighting pits in the past, then a slave of the Emperor, and now a slave of Khorne.
Fulgrim—a waste! Constantly slacking off, with intermittent bursts of ambition. He'd be playing around, and then suddenly want to do something. And then, in the middle of doing something, he'd suddenly want to go and play.
Mortarion—ignorant! The Grandfather's most beloved son, who spent all his time cooped up in Nurgle's Garden. He'd already ascended, and was still trying to sell his numerology to the Greater Daemons, to the point where they were all baffled.
Magnus—a fool! His mind unsound, he was always thinking of revenge, and had almost forgotten who had shattered him. He lived in his own world, and would always, regardless of the facts, say to any acquaintance, 'Is it not your fault at all that I rebelled?' And then he would ramble on about his imagined past, tormenting his sons to death, putting on a big show for Tzeentch.
Lorgar—he was a qualified brother. But unfortunately, this brother's ability to provide support was also limited. He had been targeted by another brother who had embraced himself. Even though he had the chance to come out and get some fresh air because the other was too busy hunting traitors, he could not achieve much.
Life is a dream, each with their own splendor. Everyone has a bright future!
"Haaa—"
He let out a long breath. After a simple review of the current situation and the work focus for the next few years, Perturabo once again thought of those painful memories from the Great Crusade. At the thought of this, Perturabo couldn't help but sneer at his brothers who had turned to the Chaos Gods. If he could, he would rather have Dorn as his colleague, or even the four of them now.
Yes, he was jealous of these brothers. He was jealous that they could freely paint the worlds he had conquered. He wanted to destroy this corrupt Imperium. The flaw in his character had always been there. He was jealous of these brothers. Why can you use your inferior taste and inefficient design to decorate the Imperium I have conquered?
But after the jealousy and resentment, came thought. Under such limited conditions on his side, a head-on clash was not possible. So he had to think of other ways.
"To destroy the corrupt corpse of this Imperium is just to respond to Abaddon's slogan. And I have to say, this slogan can indeed, to the greatest extent, unite and unify the Chaos warbands," Perturabo had long been clear about his limitations. One against four. And against Primarchs.
He despised these brothers from the bottom of his heart, but he would not ignore reality. And the values that Abaddon was exporting were only good for fooling the renegade chapters. The old-timers of the Legions had never believed in it. Many of the unlucky ones had been dragged down by their Primarchs. Most of them had never thought of serving the Chaos Gods.
"And my warriors," he looked at Forrix. Looked at this son, who had fallen into a daze under his words. Perturabo now knew very well what these sons wanted.
The shadows of the command room stretched behind his tall body, but his eyes shone with an unprecedented clarity. "I will give you a new meaning. To fight for me, to fight for my will. To gather those compatriots who are still deluded by my pathetic father, to free them from the slavery of a rotting corpse. I will no longer send my sons to their deaths for my pathetic father's ideal. We will reunite under a single banner and use our will to create a new empire."
Perturabo knew clearly what he wanted, what he wanted to get from this war. His gaze was like a torch, piercing the star-chart and staring at the Dawnlight Sector. His brothers had shown him a new path. A path that was much more interesting than the one he had been on in Chaos, of tearing down a planet and then rebuilding it, and then tearing it down again.
His eyes were bright. In the simple Iron Blood, they were like a bright lamp. He was indeed no longer bound by the past.
And Forrix knew that their gene-father was stronger than ever before.
"Forrix," after the Regicide board had been reset by the machine, Perturabo said, as if remembering something. "That Thousand Son, Khayon, is still there, right?"
"Their fleet has been under surveillance," Forrix replied.
"Summon him," Perturabo ordered, and his mind instinctively thought of that Chaos Warmaster he despised. He didn't want Abaddon's attitude. He wanted the attitude of the Four Gods.
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