For Perturabo, even after two centuries of campaigning, Olympia remained his only weakness and the final bastion of his pride.
He had always believed that, though he did the dirtiest and most grueling work abroad, he kept his homeland running like clockwork.
He was Olympia's liberator, its beacon of civilization.
Yet when word of rebellion arrived, that beacon was extinguished.
On-screen, Perturabo stood on the bridge of his flagship, the Iron Blood.
He crushed the parchment dispatch from the surface so hard his knuckles went white, reducing the reinforced paper to ash.
His birthworld, his people, had not only expelled the Imperial governor but had publicly burned his effigy, shouting for freedom from the 'Iron Tyrant.'
'How… dare they?'
Perturabo's voice was a low, terrible rumble, like a volcano about to erupt.
To him this was more than political betrayal—it was the negation of his entire life's worth.
If even his own homeland despised him, what had two centuries of struggle been for?
At that moment a figure in dark-red power armor stepped from the shadows.
Not one of the Iron Warriors, but a chaplain of the Word Bearers.
Ever since the destruction of the Perfect City, Lorgar had assigned such 'fraternal' chaplains to every Legion—ostensibly to strengthen brotherhood, in truth to spread the poison called the 'Primordial Truth.'
'My Lord,' the priest said, voice rich with seductive resonance,
'This is more than betrayal—it is contempt. They scorn your mercy, they scorn your sacrifice.'
'The Emperor teaches forgiveness and enlightenment, yet see the result: forgiveness buys weakness, mercy buys the dagger.'
The priest leaned close and whispered:
'Only thunderous means reveal a bodhisattva's heart.
Sometimes, to establish eternal Order, one must carry out a thorough cleansing.
In this Universe, only Death is the universal currency.'
Perturabo turned; bloodshot eyes bored into the priest.
Once he would have hurled such a canting zealot out an airlock.
Now the words slipped like vipers into his already-shattered heart.
'You speak truly.'
He donned his helm; his voice became cold, mechanical.
'I will teach them… what true "iron" means.'
And so catastrophe descended.
The The Fourth Legion, the Iron Warriors, landed on their birthworld.
No negotiations, no calls to surrender.
They emplaced siege cannons and aimed at the very walls Perturabo had designed to shelter his people.
'Fire.'
At the word, tens of thousands of shells fell like rain.
The scene turned apocalyptic.
This was not war; it was slaughter.
Once-thriving streets became abattoirs. Iron Warriors advanced in heavy tread, clearing every block with Bolter and Chainsword.
Old men, women, children—pulped beneath the booming shells.
'No! Stop! That's our kin!'
A young Iron Warrior tore off his helm and stepped in front of a tank firing on civilians.
An Olympian, he recognized the burning house as his own.
'Stand aside, soldier.'
The tank Commander's voice was ice.
'Primarch's Order: kill them all.'
'I won't! This is massacre, not war!'
The youth raised his Bolter to shield the civilians behind him.
A crack rang out.
He crumpled in a spreading red pool.
Perturabo himself had fired.
The Primarch strode past his son's corpse without a glance.
'Disobedience is Death.'
His Warhammer, the Forgelight, still dripped blood.
'I tolerate no weakness, no hesitation. Iron Warriors shed no tears—only obedience.'
Under his iron rule the Legion became a meat-grinder devoid of feeling.
Within days the Olympians were exterminated.
The entire Planet burned.
The air reeked of charred flesh and hopeless screams.
At last Perturabo reached the palace of his foster-father, the place where he had grown.
There he met the only soul who dared face him.
His adoptive sister, Calliphone.
The palace was rubble; she stood before the throne once his own, clad in black mourning.
Age had lined her face, yet her eyes remained as proud and sharp as in youth.
Facing the three-metre titan armored and dripping blood, she showed no fear.
'Look at you, little brother.'
Her voice rang through the hollow hall, laden with heartbreak.
'Look what you've made of yourself.'
'I became the conqueror! I became the strong!'
Roaring, Perturabo tore off his helm to reveal a twisted visage.
'You betrayed me! I gave you civilization, technology, and you stabbed me in the back!'
'Betrayal?'
Calliphone laughed—a sound heavier than any hammer.
'You think this rising was born of greed?
No, Abo, it was born of you.
You turned Olympia into a recruiting ground.
You sent our sons by the thousands to die in the void for a single nod from your so-called Emperor.
You never listened.
You never cared if we lived or died—only for your own pride!'
'Silence!' He raised a hand to strike.
She stepped closer, staring into the giant's eyes.
'You are weak.'
The word struck like lightning, shattering every defense.
'Badly forged iron looks strong, yet snaps like dry reed—you never understood.
You mask your fear of the unknown, the uncontrollable, with coldness.
You think if you are cruel enough, failure cannot reach you.'
She gestured to the burning city beyond, to the heaped dead.
'Look at Olympia now—see what your "coldness" has made of it!
Is this your masterpiece? Your idea of perfection?
You are nothing but a sulking child smashing things with a hammer!'
'I will not let you speak of me so!!!'
Perturabo broke.
His fragile pride shattered completely before the truth. Rage swallowed his reason in an instant.
Those hands that could crush tank armor clamped around Kelly Fenney's fragile neck.
He lifted her into the air.
"I'm not weak! I'm the strongest! I'm the Lord of Iron!"
He roared and bellowed, trying to drown out the part of him that was weeping inside.
Kelly Fenney couldn't breathe.
Her face turned purple, life draining away fast.
Yet to the very end her eyes were filled with pity.
The look you give a hopeless fool.
She forced her mouth open and, with her last ounce of strength, spat out a sentence like a curse:
"You're…the stupidest…fool I've ever met."
Crack.
The snap of her neck echoed through the silent hall.
Perturabo let go.
Kelly Fenney's body hit the floor like a rag doll.
Time seemed to freeze.
Perturabo stared at the corpse, at the familiar face that had once offered him warmth in childhood and stern lessons later.
The only woman in the galaxy who had truly known him, dared to criticize him, treated him as a "person" instead of a "weapon."
Dead.
Killed by his own hands.
"No…"
Perturabo stepped back, knocking over the pillar behind him.
"No…this isn't real…I didn't mean to kill her…"
He fell to his knees, trying to touch her face, but the iron hands stained with countless lives trembled too hard to come close.
With Kelly Fenney's Death, the last shred of humanity in Perturabo—the part that still dreamed of building a better home—died too.
Shattered.
Like steel quenched wrong, ripped apart by its own internal stresses until only scrap remained.
Left with him was a hollow, black-hole regret.
And fear.
Fear vast enough to swallow a soul.
[He realized the Emperor would never forgive what he had done.]
[Massacring civilians, destroying Planets, killing kin.]
[It broke every tenet of the Imperial Truth.]
[He was finished.]
[He would stand trial.]
Perturabo curled up in the rubble like a child terrified of parental punishment after an unforgivable mistake.
Just then.
A voice crackled through the vox.
The last one he wanted to hear—and the only one that could still save him.
"Perturabo, my brother."
It was Warmaster Horus.
"I've heard what you did on Olympia."
There was no accusation in Horus's tone—only something like approval and understanding.
"Don't worry, brother. I'm not the hypocrite sulking on the Golden Throne. I understand your reasons. It was a necessary sacrifice."
"The Emperor will not forgive you. But I will."
"Because we are building a new Order—one meant for the truly strong."
"Join me. Together we'll topple the tyrant."
Perturabo lifted his gaze to the devastation of his homeland.
He had burned every bridge behind him.
Unless he wanted judgment and Death, he could only march this road to the end.
Perturabo rose. The last light in his eyes died, replaced by absolute, reckless cold madness.
"Fine."
He answered over the vox, voice steady now.
DC Universe
"This…is the banality of evil."
Batman stared at the screen, voice low and terrible.
"No grand ideals, no complex schemes—just a narcissist whose glass heart cracked."
"To hide his mistake he killed everyone who pointed it out, including his own kin."
Wonder Woman Diana turned away, unable to look at the woman's body on the floor.
"That sister…she was a true warrior."
Diana said. "Facing a rampaging demigod, she begged for nothing and spoke the truth."
"She was the hardest person on that Planet—ten thousand times stronger than the cowards in steel armor."
"Classic. Fear breeds traitors far more reliably than ambition."
Constantine exhaled a smoke ring in the corner.
"It's the classic 'I already wet the bed, might as well take a dump in my pants' logic."
"He knew he couldn't go home. Like a kid who broke a vase, then torches the house and runs off with the bad crowd because Daddy's paddle scares him."
Marvel Universe
"I take it back."
Stark stared at the screen, face pale.
"He's nothing like me. Not in the least."
"Sure, I'm arrogant and I screw up—Ultron's proof of that."
"But I faced my mistakes. I tried to fix them."
Tony jabbed a finger at the hopeless Perturabo on the screen.
"This guy…he'd rather destroy the whole galaxy than admit he was wrong."
"That level of self-centeredness is practically anti-human."
Captain America's expression was grave, as if facing Red Skull.
"He killed the person brave enough to tell him the truth."
The Captain spoke low: "In any era, any place, when a ruler starts executing those who point out his errors—or soldiers who follow conscience over orders—he stops being a ruler and becomes a tyrant."
"The lady named Kelly Fenney was a warrior. She didn't flinch before that giant. Her courage was harder than any suit of power armor."
Hellsing World
The Major didn't cheer this time.
He stood quietly, swirling his wineglass, a flicker of…disappointment in his eyes.
"Tsk tsk tsk."
The Major shook his head. "Pathetic."
"Thought he was a madman who waged war for war's sake—now that would have had style. But no."
"He's just a coward who lied to avoid a scolding, murdered to cover the lie, then ran because he feared being found out."
The Major sipped his wine, voice dripping with contempt.
"This war has no soul. It's not a symphony—it's noise."
"Killing your own side—what kind of skill is that?"
"We want evenly matched slaughter! A hellish carnival!
"Not this…this toddler-tantrum destruction."
"Perturabo, Perturabo," the Major toasted the screen, "you disappoint me."