Chapter 293: Khorne: Dammit, I'm All In!
In the dim cabin, the flickering candlelight cast twisted shadows on the metal walls, like a thousand prying eyes.
There were four cards.
One, exuding an intoxicating fragrance, floated on the far left, its surface swirling with an unnatural purple light. Next to it was a cauldron, carved with blasphemous runes, constantly seeping a putrid green mist. Beside the cauldron was a crystal card, countless star-like vortexes spinning madly, as if to devour the souls of all who gazed upon it. And on the far right, in the final card, eight skull-vessels filled with viscous blood were arranged in the shape of the eight-pointed star of Chaos, a crimson flame dancing in the empty eye sockets of each skull.
This was the omen that the Chaos sorcerer known as Khayon had shown to Perturabo.
"If this is all Abaddon is willing to pay, then you can get out," Perturabo said coldly, looking down at the sorcerer before him. He had no deep impression of this servant of Abaddon, but he was certain that this sorcerer who had survived the Rubric of Ahriman had not shone much during the Great Crusade.
Khayon's expression changed at once. His pupils contracted slightly, and his body took a half-step back, feeling the overwhelming pressure and the almost-solid power in the air. He swallowed. Hiss—as expected of a complete Primarch.
"Lord Perturabo, this is merely a show of the attitude of the four presences," Khayon's gaze flickered briefly over Perturabo's iron-grey face, then quickly lowered. The sorcerer, who had once made Magnus 'kneel' to Abaddon and had spread it far and wide in the warp to build up the Chaos Warmaster's reputation, finally found a shred of reverence.
"You have seen it, Lord of Iron," Khayon said, his fingertips gently stroking the floating cards. "This will bring you victory. In your hands, the victory of a crusade, a victory won by your command, and not just by the orders of Lupercal as in the past. That is an immortal glory. That is a status that surpasses your brothers. That is the right and left hand of the new order."
"I understand what this represents. Stop trying to flatter me. Tell me, why are you bringing this up?" Perturabo replied, a little annoyed.
"Because I have foreseen it. Because I know you desire it. A victory. The victory of this war."
"I have no interest in your vague deconstructions of prophecy," Perturabo said, looking at Khayon and beginning to sneer. He had a rough idea of what this sorcerer meant. Accept the blessings of the Four Gods, and then take this blessing and go for a ride in the material universe. The Four Gods would use this to achieve their goals.
However, with five living examples before him, he had no desire to take out a small loan from the Four Gods like Be'lakor, nor did he want to step onto the chessboard and become a clown for everyone to laugh at. One, he did not have Be'lakor's flexibility. Two, his past experience told him clearly that he could not outplay the Four Gods. Back then, he had stumbled over Fulgrim. He might not be able to avoid stumbling over the Four Gods.
He squeezed the Forgebreaker hammer in his hand. Perturabo, enduring the series of emotions that rose in his mind, once again began to think about why he had started this war.
First, what did he want from this war? The first thing was Dantioch. He needed to find out how these sons, who should have been dead, had been resurrected, to take back Dantioch's soul, and to find out if his father was hiding the souls of any other sons. The giant of iron's fingers unconsciously fiddled with the pendant at his fingertips. This was his sister's soul. Ever since his homeworld of Olympia had been destroyed by his own hand, his sister's soul had been with him, and in his repeated attempts, had been resurrected, and then destroyed again and again. He had a deep understanding of the research of loading a soul into a body, so he had this confidence.
The second thing was to win this battle. To settle the old scores with the Imperium, and then to confront his brothers. He and his brothers would fight each other in the way of strategists. And then he would be victorious, to prove to his pathetic father that he was more excellent than these young brothers. He would build his own kingdom. This was what Perturabo wanted.
Perturabo turned away. He stood, silent, staring at the foul darkness outside the observation port. He gazed at the air, as if he could see something in the darkness. The air in the cabin suddenly became viscous, as if a thousand invisible strings were being pulled taut in the darkness. That thing was bright and distant, ethereal, like a poison coated in honey, and only he could see it.
Secondly, what else did he need to win this war? "I do not need those so-called blessings. The giving of the Four Gods is more like an endless taking. What I need is an army, a group of generals, those Greater Daemons that are enough to fight my brothers, or my other brothers," Perturabo said, slowly turning his head to look at Khayon, and stated his request.
The combat capability of those four brothers was exaggerated. Although Romulus was not very clear, the name of the Lord of Formless Chaos was already going wild in the warp. And they could permanently kill certain warp-entities to strengthen themselves. Their development and power growth should be strongly related to the series of opponents they had defeated in the Dawn Crusade. Secondly, their warp-projections could not be captured. They should be under the constant protection of the Emperor. Even the Four Gods could not interfere with them through the power of the Sea of Souls.
Thinking of this, a sour emotion welled up in Perturabo's heart again. Since you can protect your sons from the influence of the warp, why should I have to bear the pressure of the warp's tides? Am I not as good as those four brothers? He gazed at the tides of the warp, as if he could see that eternally burning, cold sun.
"I don't think I'm qualified to make a decision," Khayon shook his head.
"This is not a request—" Perturabo suddenly turned around. Khayon suddenly found that his body was floating more than four meters above the deck. He was swinging his feet from the sudden impact. The Lord of Iron's right hand was gripping his throat. "—this is a notification."
The malice in it was palpable. "Those rabble of the Black Legion will also be participating, right?" Perturabo asked in a low voice. He could choose not to move. He could afford to wait.
Khayon nodded with great difficulty. Abaddon had already planned to send those warbands that did not submit to him to the Lord of Iron to be consumed, and to scam some funds in the process.
"Mm," the Lord of Iron was quite satisfied with this answer. He then threw him across the cabin like a broken doll. Khayon crashed into a cargo container, leaving a dent, and then bounced up and fell to the deck.
The spell was not working. Khayon looked at the dark floor before him, his expression grim. He certainly would not use any offensive spells at this moment. That would be a provocation that would cost him his life. He slightly raised his body, and small fragments of shattered armour fell from him with a tinkling sound. His eyes were fixed on the Primarch.
'Looks like it worked.' Perturabo did not pay attention to the sorcerer, but looked at the reverse-device made of Blackstone in his hand. In his brief contact and long understanding of his brothers, the ones he was most wary of were Arthur and Ramesses. The former's ability to seal off the influence of the warp could greatly hinder his power projection in the material universe. And the latter, just as the legends left in the warp, you never knew what he could pull out. So he had been trying to find a way to deal with them.
Perturabo knew very well that if he could not find a way to deal with them, then it would be difficult to handle these troublesome brothers. The biggest difference between him and the likes of Magnus was that he was constantly improving. Not the alms that they received from pleasing the gods, but the analysis of his own power, the understanding of the rules of the world, the creation of new things.
Everyone thought a Primarch was neurotic. Arrogant, conceited, fallen, self-abandoning. With no clear understanding of themselves, like a group of children with swords, they were nothing but the threat of their blades. But was that really the case?
Perturabo thought, he had abandoned those feelings of resentment, and continued to think calmly. To learn to let go. This was Dorn. He had shared this with me—this was a skill he had willingly, happily shared with me.
Time was passing. And a being who no longer had to submit to anything would grow. He was not a puppet who submitted to the Four Gods, nor was he a self-depraved waste. He would not be swayed by extreme emotions, nor would he be influenced by a higher being. Perturabo had a plan, an independent thinking ability, a determination to change according to the current situation, and to constantly learn. This was his advantage. This meant that he would not be completely controlled by any one being. They could only reach a consensus based on the current situation.
The moment Khayon realized that the Lord of Iron was not as he was in the rumors, a card floating in front of him suddenly twisted and deformed. The skull faces on the card suddenly came to life and let out a resounding, mad laugh. And in this laughter, filled with anger, the resentment that Khayon had just felt from Perturabo's bottom-line treatment dissipated like melting snow, and turned into a burning rage.
The reason of a 'man' was about to dissipate in his mind in an instant. For a moment, Khayon was even confused about his surroundings. His vision was stained with blood, and the sound of a drum-like heartbeat echoed in his ears. When he came back to his senses, he saw that the first card before him had disappeared.
With a resentful roar from Angron, a blood-red wasteland appeared not far from Midgardia. The sky was like a torn wound. A torrential rain of blood fell, each drop corroding a hissing pit in the ground. The Chaos Space Marines who worshipped Khorne, driven by their emotions, threw themselves onto the crimson earth. Eighty-eight Greater Daemons of Khorne rose from the boiling sea of blood, their brass armour reflecting an ominous red light, their daemonic legions surging forward like a tide.
Their blood was flowing, their war cries and the clash of metal intertwined into a scene of madness. One was for the blessing of the Blood God, the other for the chance to go to the material universe.
The Blood God had placed the first bet.
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