Chapter 95: Great Deeds Can Be Accomplished
The atmospheric pressure over the Imperial Palace seemed to compress the very air itself, oppressive, suffocating, heavy with impending catastrophe.
Perturabo paced with mechanical precision near the landing platforms, and the moment his eyes registered Francis's arrival, something shifted behind his features. Purpose. Calculation. A singular focus that transcended his usual brooding demeanor.
He strode forward immediately. He intercepted Francis immediately, drawing him aside with surprising urgency. Konrad Curze followed in their wake, his presence now accepted almost casually.
Perturabo's gaze flickered toward the Night Haunter, then back to Francis, wariness evident in every line of his posture.
"They are entirely reliable," Francis assured him. "All of us are united in purpose."
Something crystallized in Perturabo's expression, admiration, perhaps even wonder. That Francis could recruit even Konrad Curze, a primarch whose mind remained fractured and unreliable, spoke volumes about his capabilities.
'The great work might actually be accomplished,' Perturabo thought. 'This future vision might truly be viable.'
Yet the Emperor's commands weighed heavily. He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
He spoke with visible pain: "Francis, when do we publicly establish our organization? That ancient tyrant has ordered me to take the Iron Warriors against Horus again."
"I cannot endure this damned regime another solar cycle."
Konrad Curze's eyes widened with genuine confusion. Organization? What organization? Why was he suddenly included in machinations he didn't comprehend?
"Horus has emerged?" Francis felt the foundations of recent victories begin to crumble. "What happened?"
"Not just emerged," Perturabo continued grimly. "He erupted into the void with countless daemons. Leman Russ is searching for a chance to duel him, while Vulkan, Corax, and Ferrus are holding a defensive perimeter."
"I must commend Ferrus's valor, he personally engaged the daemon-possessed Fulgrim and took massive damage before his Legionaries extracted him. He reports that Fulgrim's consciousness has been completely consumed by the daemon inhabiting his form."
"Additionally, Ferrus asked whether you had stronger medical treatments. His body needs significant enhancement to survive future engagements."
Francis paused, thinking. Francis rubbed his chin methodically, his expression growing distant with calculation.
"We need to hold back for now. First, we must deal with the Horus situation. Otherwise, as the saying goes, 'when the nest falls, no egg survives.' You understand?"
Perturabo nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, the metaphor suggests that all these 'eggs', our current preparations, must be properly utilized immediately while opportunity exists, lest we squander our positioning."
Francis: "..."
Konrad Curze: "..."
"Hehehe~" Perturabo displayed what he apparently considered a humorous expression, something unsettling that suggested his neurological responses to humor had been fundamentally rewired.
"I was merely jesting. Why do neither of you find this amusing?"
"That wasn't funny. Don't do it again," Francis said, patting his shoulder with the gentleness one might use on a deeply disturbing child.
Konrad Curze leaned forward with genuine curiosity: "Are you also rebelling against the Imperium?"
"Rebellion?" Perturabo's response carried a carefully measured quality. "No. We just want a more... comfortable existence. Fighting and killing gets exhausting. Have you never considered that there might be other options?"
Understanding crystallized in Konrad Curze's features. He had never possessed a genuine choice before, only perpetual oscillation between killing and being killed. Now, hearing about this third option felt like witnessing something his hallucinations had deliberately obscured from him.
"You can choose to join or not," Francis elaborated. "We're not rebelling against the Imperium. We just want to introduce different ideas, perspectives that the current regime has suppressed."
Some distance behind them, three figures watched. At a considerable distance behind them, Guilliman, Sanguinius, and Lion El'Jonson exchanged increasingly concerned glances.
"When did Curze become so intimate with Francis?" Guilliman's suspicion crystallized. "And Perturabo as well? Something about their conversation feels deliberately conspiratorial."
Sanguinius's expression remained serene. "Perhaps they simply enjoy one another's company. I find it heartening to witness the brothers achieving genuine camaraderie. What harmful intentions could Francis possibly harbor? He remains merely... mischievously inclined."
But Lion El'Jonson's gaze remained fixed upon Francis's back, and his expression carried something approaching unfamiliarity, as though studying a stranger wearing a familiar face.
As they approached the Hall of the Throne, the Emperor's presence manifested directly within their minds, a voice that transcended conventional auditory perception:
'The rebels will breach the Solar System's outer defensive perimeter imminently. Eliminate them entirely. Leave no survivors. No mercy. No exception.'
Their collective hearts sank.
…
Rogal Dorn stood waiting at the entrance.
Rogal Dorn, the Imperial Fists Primarch, approached with characteristic military precision and acknowledged the gathering with measured respect.
Within the central conference chamber, a holographic star map rotated with hypnotic precision, the entire Milky Way rendered in luminous projection, marked with red designations indicating active theaters of war across multiple star systems.
Twenty seats are arranged in a circular formation, each unique in character and construction.
Rigid fortress-like geometry emanated stern authority. Elegant pragmatism suggested tactical minds, sacred altars with carved wings whispered of divine aspiration. War machines bristled with mechanical interfaces and integrated tool arrays.
Francis occupied a chair rendered in neutral gray, a deliberate absence of personalization that somehow felt more ominous than ostentatious design.
Every eye remained drawn, however, to the vacant seat, Horus's seat, and the melancholy that accompanied its emptiness.
Dorn cleared his throat and began. "Although Horus remains our brother, we cannot defy Father's pronouncement. The Empire teeters upon its own collapse. We must annihilate the traitor forces."
"Their warships approach Trisolan. We shall achieve total elimination at that location. My tactical analysis includes— "
"That's too conservative," Francis interrupted. "We have superior numbers now. Why not just hit them with overwhelming force? Seven or eight complete Legions? Coordinated strike at the root of this whole war?"
Perturabo and Konrad Curze exchanged glances and nodded in unified agreement.
The remaining Primarchs articulated similar sentiment. The tactical situation clearly demanded aggressive prosecution, not cautious positioning.
Dorn's response carried pragmatic weight: "Terra itself requires guardian forces. Abandoning the Throneworld entirely would constitute a catastrophic strategic error."
"Then leave the Imperial Fists, Custodes, and Silent Sisters as defenders," Francis countered. "That's enough to hold Terra while giving us a fallback position if we need to retreat quickly."
He gestured, and Soul Drinkers stepped forward. He clapped his hands sharply, and Soul Drinker contingents emerged bearing containers of sophisticated ordinance.
"These psychic bombs should go on Luna. If reality rifts open, they can disrupt daemon incursions. Also, I recommend shutting down all Webway infrastructure on Luna. We can't risk unknown entities coming through those portals."
Guilliman leaned forward, studying the display, and nodded with visible approval. Francis's tactical planning exceeded standard military doctrine. The proposal contained no discernible flaws.
Sanguinius and Lion El'Jonson concurred as well.
Dorn recognized that his defensive positioning might indeed have been overcautious. The amended strategy possessed significantly greater promise.
The conference lasted several hours, marked by intense deliberation and occasional heated disagreement. Each Primarch articulated their strategic perspectives. Consensus emerged sporadically, while certain positions remained contentious.
Ultimately, they accepted Francis's revised recommendations as the authoritative battle plan.
As the others began filing out, Francis approached Rogal Dorn with conspicuous awkwardness: "Brother, could I get a small blood sample?"
Rogal Dorn: "?"
Before Dorn could formulate a response, Perturabo rolled up his sleeve with characteristic bluntness. "This is nothing! If he refuses, I'll volunteer! Francis, go ahead. Take as much as you need."
Rogal Dorn: "... Excuse me?"
...
As Francis departed toward his battleship, he encountered a contingent of mortal troops bearing Prospero-style armor modifications.
One warrior stepped forward and saluted. "Respected Primarch, I must apologize for my reckless conduct during the Prospero engagement."
Confusion flickered across Francis's features until recognition struck like sudden recollection. The soldier's current face superimposed itself over his fragmented memory, the frightened mortal who had continuously bombarded him with artillery fire, only to collapse from pure terror when confronted directly.
"You're that one! I remember you fainting in utter panic, not even managing to wipe the discharge from your face. Hahahaha~"
The recalled expression of anguish triggered genuine amusement as Francis reminisced about the soldier's humiliation.
But now the warrior stood transformed, half his body augmented by mechanical devices, his expression hardened by trials unimaginable.
"Prospero Spire Guard, Enforcer contingent, requesting formal acknowledgment of duty completion!"
Francis waved him off.
"Leave," Francis dismissed him with a casual gesture. He turned to observe the gathered Soul Drinkers watching the exchange with ill-concealed curiosity.
"You're all watching too closely. I think your flesh is mutating again. Get on the ship now."
The Soul Drinkers cowered with synchronous speed and boarded hastily, clearly dreading whatever examination awaited.
At a discreet distance, Guilliman and Sanguinius witnessed the entire interaction.
Sanguinius smiled gently. "You see?"
Sanguinius placed a reassuring hand upon Guilliman's shoulder. "I told you Francis harbors no duplicity. Observe his kindness toward mortal personnel. How could such compassion mask conspiracy?"
"Perhaps I did overthink the situation," Guilliman conceded reluctantly, though his gaze remained troubled.
The Laboratory
Within the Furious Abyss's laboratory, Francis extracted Rogal Dorn's blood sample and positioned it carefully upon the experimental bench.
Possibilities crystallized in his mind, vast, intricate, dangerous possibilities.
He smiled.
The work continued.
[End of Chapter]